Hostile Makeover

Emma Lockwood paused at the revolving doors, clutching her coffee. The air outside was sharp, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and pumpkin spice from the cafe nearby. Through the glass, she could see the lobby already lively with movement—two interns were joking around near reception, one wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy while the other, dressed as a vampire, tried to sink his teeth into him to the amusement of their co-workers.

Emma took a breath and stepped inside. She knew it was going to be a busy day—Halloween always was. People got carried away, boundaries blurred, and before long, the complaints would start piling up. A nightmare for anyone, but especially for a human resources manager.

She crossed the lobby with a tight smile. The receptionist had cobwebs strung across her desk, a plastic spider dangling dangerously close to her keyboard. One of the IT guys had shown up in a banana costume, and the facilities manager was lumbering around as Frankenstein, the green makeup on his face already streaky and patchy. A few people hadn’t bothered at all—just business shirts and forced smiles. Emma’s own costume fell somewhere in between: a black dress from her usual rotation paired with a witch’s hat that looked like it came from a supermarket bargain bin. She’d added a subtle flick of eyeliner, just enough to look like she’d made an effort.

“Morning, Emma,” called Janice from reception, her devil horns bobbing as she waved.
“Morning,” Emma replied with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes, clutching her coffee tighter.

If it had been up to her, she’d have ignored the dress-up memo entirely, but given her role in the company, that wasn’t really an option. It wasn’t that she was against fun—it just felt draining to act cheerful when her own life felt like something out of a bad soap opera. The divorce had been finalised two months ago, but the wound was still raw. Her ex-husband, Tom, worked two floors down in Accounts, and every time the lift doors opened, she tensed, half-expecting to see him—or worse, the secretary with the platinum-blonde curls who’d taken him. Emma had become adept at rearranging her lunch breaks, timing her meetings, and even taking the stairs to avoid them both.

She passed a few more employees on her way to the office: someone under a bedsheet—a poor excuse for a costume, though she respected the half-hearted effort; a group of data analysts dressed as superheroes, clearly having gone all in; and Evan from Finance, inexplicably wearing fairy wings and a pink tutu, which seemed completely out of character for such a serious, boring man. The corridor lights flickered against the cheap decorations draped over the motion sensors. It all felt faintly surreal—grown adults playing dress-up while she carried around the far scarier ghost of her failed marriage.

She switched on her computer and took a sip of coffee as her inbox loaded: two new complaints, an ongoing dispute over overtime pay, and a meeting invite titled Urgent: Payroll Discrepancy (Accounts). She groaned. Of course it was Accounts. With any luck, it wouldn’t involve Tom—but lately, luck hadn’t exactly been on her side. She tossed her witch’s hat onto the desk and rolled her chair forward, opening the first email with a weary sort of determination. Halloween or not, heartbreak or not, there were still fires to put out—and if Emma Lockwood was anything, she was good at solving problems, even if her methods weren’t always by the book.

=============

By mid-morning, Emma had made it through her meeting in Accounts without incident—no stress, no surprises, and most importantly, no Tom. She let out a quiet breath of relief as she left the conference room and decided to grab a quick coffee before heading back upstairs. It wasn’t up to the standards of the café downstairs, but the sludge from the break room would do well enough to power her through until lunchtime.

She pushed open the door and was hit by a burst of laughter—the kind that carried, loud and careless, far too cheerful for a workday morning. A small crowd had gathered in the centre of the room, blocking whatever had everyone in stitches. Emma frowned, letting out a sharp tut of disapproval. Then, as the group shifted aside, she caught sight of what they were laughing at—and the air left her lungs.

It was Tom. And the home-wrecker herself, Beckie.

They were the last people in the world she wanted to see, yet here they were, centre stage in the break room, holding court like the office’s own self-appointed comedy double act. Beckie was dressed in a charcoal grey men’s suit, the jacket and trousers both slightly too big, with a pair of black lace-up shoes that looked borrowed from someone larger. On her head sat a cheap brown wig, shiny under the harsh lighting—an obvious attempt to copy Tom’s everyday hairstyle.

It was jarring to see her like this—the usually tarty Beckie stripped of her heavy makeup, sky-high heels, and skirts so short they barely met company policy. But beside her, Tom’s outfit made Beckie’s transformation seem almost inconsequential.

He was dressed in a woman’s skirt suit. The skirt reached just above his knees, the blazer unbuttoned to reveal a white silk blouse, the chest padded out to look like he had a lumpy pair of breasts. His hairy legs showed through a pair of sheer black tights, and on his feet were his usual slip-on office shoes, far too clunky for the outfit. Above it all sat a cheap blonde wig, clearly meant to imitate Beckie’s hair.

(See image 01)

The room erupted again when Beckie did a mock deep voice— “I’m Tom, and I’m so serious about quarterly reports”—while Tom fluttered his hands and pitched his voice high: “I’m Beckie, I’m not sure if these shoes match my nails. What do you think?!”

Emma gasped, barely catching herself on the doorframe. The laughter blurred into static. For a moment, she thought she might collapse to the floor.

The gall of him. The absolute, tone-deaf audacity.

It wasn’t just childish—it was cruel. The two of them, dressed as each other, mocking the whole mess that had blown her life apart. And doing it here, in her building, in front of half the staff. For a moment, the humiliation stung worse than the day she’d found them together in her bed. This wasn’t harmless fun; it was salt in the wound, played for applause.

Beckie spotted her first. Her smirk faltered.
Tom turned a moment later—his eyes widened, though he kept the grin plastered on his face.

The laughter died down, unease rippling through the room as people braced for fireworks.

But Emma wasn’t about to give Tom, Beckie, or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing her crack. She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, picked up a mug, and reached for the coffee pot. The slow gurgle of the pour filled the silence. The smell was dreadful.

When the mug was full, she turned, met Tom’s eyes, and smiled—a small, razor-edged smile.
“Well,” she said evenly, “don’t you two look the part.”

Tom’s grin sharpened. “Well, you always did say I had great legs.”

A few people snorted; someone coughed. Then Beckie burst out laughing, and the rest of the room followed, the sound swelling back into full-blown hysteria.

Emma drew a slow breath through her nose, took a sip of coffee, and grimaced at the bitter taste. She lifted her chin, turned on her heel, and walked out without a word. Inside, her anger coiled tight, a vein pulsing at the side of her neck. The humiliation, the laughter, the smugness—all of it fused into a rage she’d never felt before. Tom had crossed a line, one he would come to regret. An extreme and unusual plan for revenge was already forming in her mind.

He’d made her a spectacle.
Now it was her turn.

=============

Two hours later, Emma stood outside Tom’s office, two coffee cups in a holder in her left hand and a polite, practised smile on her face. She’d invented a reason to see him—a “follow-up” about departmental reporting—just plausible enough to sound routine. The hum of the office outside was business as usual—phones ringing, keyboards clacking—but inside her, everything felt sharp and electric. She took a breath, steadied herself, and knocked.

“Come in,” came Tom’s voice.

He was behind his desk in the same charcoal-grey skirt suit, the blazer unbuttoned over a white silk blouse. His cheap blonde wig lay beside the keyboard, and his face was still lightly made up—smooth foundation, a touch of blush, soft pink lips, and just enough mascara to darken his lashes.

“Afternoon,” Emma said brightly. “Thought I’d bring you one of your favourites. Still the same order, right?”

Tom blinked, surprised, but managed a cautious smile. “Oh—uh, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

She placed the cup in front of him and sat down opposite, crossing her legs neatly. “It’s nothing,” she said, waving a hand. “Actually, I wanted to run something past you—quick question about departmental reporting lines. Shouldn’t take long.”

He nodded, though the look on his face said he’d rather be anywhere else. “Sure. I, uh, hope you’re not still—”

“Anyway,” Emma cut in smoothly, already pulling out a notepad. “So, I was reviewing the cross-department flowcharts, and I noticed Accounts has been looping requests through HR again instead of sending them directly to Operations. It’s not a big issue, just a procedural oversight…”

She kept her voice light and businesslike, as if the morning’s humiliation had never happened. Tom tried a few half-hearted remarks, but she sailed past them, too cheerful, too composed.

A few minutes into her monologue, he shifted in his chair.

“Everything alright?” she asked without missing a beat, jotting something down.

“Yeah—yeah, fine,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Just… stiff neck or something.”

Emma nodded sympathetically. “You should probably get that checked. Anyway, as I was saying…”

But as she continued, his discomfort grew. He rubbed the back of his neck, then his temples. His breathing quickened, and a low groan escaped him.

Tom forced a weak chuckle. “Sorry—think that coffee might’ve gone down wrong,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his stomach.

“Mm,” Emma murmured, taking a calm sip from her own cup. “They do make them strong at that cafe.”

He shifted again, grimacing now, his skin taking on a sheen of sweat. “I—I think we might need to postpone this,” he said, his words slurring slightly. “I’m not feeling too—”

He didn’t finish. His body went rigid, his eyes still open, fixed on some distant point beyond her shoulder.

Emma lowered her cup, studying him.

“Tom?” she said softly. “Can you hear me? Can you move?”

No response. Not even a blink.

(See image 02)

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then, with measured calm, she stood and straightened her skirt. Crossing to the door, she closed the blinds—first on the window, then on the door—before turning and walking back to stand over the man she’d once built her life around, only for him to tear it apart.

“You’re probably panicking in there right now,” Emma said, peering down at him. “Don’t worry—the effects of the nerve toxin I slipped in your coffee will wear off in a few hours. That should give us just enough time to make your costume a little more authentic. And although you can’t move, you can still see and feel everything.”

She smiled faintly, then pulled out her phone and typed a quick message. Tom sat frozen, his eyes wide and unblinking—utter panic trapped behind them, his body unable to betray it.

For Tom, the next few minutes of silent terror stretched into what felt like a lifetime. The only movement in the room was the slow sweep of the second hand on the clock above the filing cabinet. His eyes—wide and glassy—tracked it helplessly, his mind screaming while his body remained frozen in place.

Then came a knock at the door.

Emma’s heels clicked against the floor as she crossed the office, her composure unnervingly calm. She cracked the door open, glanced into the corridor, and then stepped aside to let a woman in.

“Come in, quickly,” Emma said in a low voice, closing the door behind her.

The newcomer was smartly dressed in black trousers and a cream blouse, her dark hair tied neatly back. In one hand, she carried a large case by the handle—slightly too big to pass for an ordinary briefcase.

“Do you have everything?” Emma asked.

The woman nodded. “Yeah, but… you’re sure this won’t come back on me?”

Emma gave a small, confident shake of her head. “Don’t worry. It’s all planned. Pull this off the way we discussed and you’ll be handsomely rewarded — and no one will ever know you were involved.”

They crossed the room together and stopped beside Tom’s desk. Emma gestured gracefully toward him. “Claire, meet Tom,” she said. “Tom, this is Claire—an old friend of mine from school. She works in a beauty spa these days, specialising in helping people look their absolute best.”

Tom’s pupils twitched. It was the only sign of life left in him.

Emma smiled down at him, her tone turning syrupy. “After your little performance in the break room earlier, I gave Claire a call. She was kind enough to drop everything and come straight over to help you out.”

She turned to Claire, her expression softening into mock gratitude. “Isn’t it nice of her to come on such short notice?” Then, leaning closer to Tom, her voice dropped to a gentle purr. “And to provide the cocktail that will let you sit here and enjoy every moment of it.”

Claire glanced at Emma, arching a brow but saying nothing as she unclasped the latches on her case. She then began unpacking —laying out brushes, bottles, and all manner of tools and devices in a neat, deliberate line across Tom’s desk. The quiet precision of it only made the moment more unsettling.

Emma meanwhile hoisted herself up on the corner of the desk, crossing one leg over the other with practised ease. “You see, Tom,” she began casually, “your little costume had potential. You do have great legs and a small enough frame to pull it off, but the hair…” She paused, smiling down at the motionless man, her tone dripping with irony. “It just didn’t quite sell the look, did it?”

Tom didn’t react. He couldn’t. He just sat, statue-like, in his office chair—upright, eyes open, his breathing shallow and mechanical. The only signs of life were the slow rise and fall of his chest and the faint flicker of panic still burning behind his gaze.

Emma held his gaze for a few moments longer, then let out a quiet chuckle. “I see you’re not disagreeing. Well, let’s get started then,” she said, hopping down from the desk. She gave Claire a nod, a silent cue to begin.

Claire picked up a set of clippers and snapped on the lowest guard. The quiet click echoed in the stillness before the blades came to life with a low, steady buzz. She worked methodically, guiding them through Tom’s hair in slow, even strokes. Dark strands tumbled down and gathered in soft clumps across the desk and around his chair. He didn’t react—didn’t flinch or blink—as more of his pale scalp emerged under the harsh office light.

When the last uneven patch was gone, Claire switched off the clippers and set them aside. Without missing a beat, she reached for her waxing kit. The faint scent of warm resin filled the air as she stirred the pot and tested the temperature on the back of her hand.

She began at his neck, spreading the wax with calm precision before pressing down a strip and pulling it away in one swift motion. The sound was sharp in the silence, but there was no cry, no flinch, just the faint tearing of hair from skin. She moved steadily upward, repeating the process across his cheeks, over his temples, and finally along his brows. Every motion was controlled, clinical, efficient. When she finished the top of his head, the skin was perfectly smooth and faintly gleaming, his head now resembling that of a shop mannequin.

Emma stepped closer, inspecting him like an artist appraising her work. “Perfect,” she murmured, a faint, satisfied smile curving her lips. “Now that’s a proper blank canvas.”

She tilted her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Tom,” she added lightly. “This is just the base layer. The real fun starts next.”

(See image 03)

Emma folded her arms and tilted her head, studying Tom with the calm detachment of someone inspecting a renovation project. “Let’s see now… your skin isn’t bad. Clearly, you moisturise. But age is catching up with you, isn’t it? It works for the distinguished middle-management look you’ve been going with, but as a secretary?” She let out a small, disapproving hum. “It just won’t do.”

Her eyes flicked to Claire, a wicked glimmer forming. “But don’t worry, there are plenty of ways to turn back the clock these days. A little Botox here, a little filler there… we can even take a touch of inspiration from your dear Beckie. Higher cheekbones, plumper lips, give you that glossy bimbo look you seem to admire so much.”

Claire nodded and began preparing her tools. She laid out a row of small glass vials, syringes, and antiseptic wipes, each motion neat and deliberate. The faint chemical scent of alcohol and numbing cream began to mingle with the warm resin that still lingered from the wax.

“Let’s start with the lines,” Emma said softly, leaning one hip against the desk. “We can’t have our new girl looking tired, can we?”

Claire nodded again, snapping the cap from a syringe and pressing out a thin bead of clear fluid to test the pressure. She leaned in close to Tom’s face, the sterile scent of antiseptic wipes heavy in the air. With quick, practised movements, she cleaned a patch above his eyes, then slid the needle beneath the skin with a precise motion.

Tiny dots of fluid were deposited in a pattern across his forehead — between where his brows had been, above the nose, along the faint horizontal lines that had once creased whenever he frowned. Each injection slid smoothly into the flesh, the plunger hissing quietly as the solution flowed in.

Moving lower, Claire smoothed another antiseptic wipe over the corners of his eyes. “Crow’s feet next,” she murmured. A few more injections followed — careful, symmetrical — until the fine wrinkles disappeared beneath the spreading firmness of the Botox. The muscles under his skin began to relax, the tension smoothing away to leave a mask-like stillness.

Emma watched throughout, arms folded, a faint smirk playing at her lips. “See? Ten years younger already. You’ll be the envy of every intern on Monday.”

Claire changed syringes, loading a fresh one with filler. She dabbed a trace of anaesthetic balm on his lips and cheekbones before continuing. She began at his cheeks, injecting small, measured amounts beneath the skin, then massaging the filler upward with the flats of her thumbs. Bit by bit, the hollows beneath Tom’s eyes lifted, his cheekbones rising into sharp, artificial contours.

Then came the lips. The needle slipped into his upper lip first, just below the surface. Claire pressed the plunger slowly, the gel spreading beneath the skin, lifting and swelling the flesh. She worked evenly around the edges, then switched to the lower lip, repeating the process in a smooth rhythm — puncture, press, withdraw, wipe.

By the time she finished, Tom’s mouth was grotesquely full — a glossy, exaggerated pout that sat awkwardly on his frozen face.

Emma watched the transformation with quiet delight. The faint laugh lines around his mouth were gone, his skin taut and polished, his cheeks fuller, and his lips now dominated his face — an unmistakable imitation of Beckie’s overdone look.

Emma leaned in, studying Tom with cool satisfaction. “Perfect,” she murmured. “I think Beckie would be jealous.” She straightened, turning to Claire with an approving nod. “Beautiful work. I think our new secretary is finally starting to look the part.”

(See image 04)

She tapped a finger against her chin thoughtfully. “However,” she added after a pause, “we’re still missing a few important details. After all, no self-respecting secretary would be caught dead without a pair of huge, fluttering lashes.”

Claire, on cue, reached into her case and drew out a small tray of thick, black false eyelashes—more suited to a showgirl than an accountant. She unscrewed the cap of a small adhesive tube, and the sharp scent of glue filled the room.

Tom stared on petrified as Emma continued. “Now, Tom, you’ll be happy to hear this isn’t ordinary lash glue. Oh no. This one’s a bit stronger—super strength, in fact. A few drops of this, and those lashes will be bonded to you like the real things.”

The words hung in the air as Claire dabbed the adhesive carefully along each strip. The smell of glue mingled with the sterile tang that still lingered in the office. With steady hands, she pressed the lashes into place—first one eye, then the other. The long, dramatic fibres fanned upward, heavy and absurdly feminine against Tom’s now-smooth face.

Emma stepped closer to inspect, her smile widening. “Lovely,” she said softly. “Just wait until you start batting those new beauties about the office You’ll have the boys eating out of the palm of your hand.”

She circled him, heels clicking lightly. “But those lashes will need some company. A secretary needs perfect brows—well-groomed, shapely, expressive.” Her tone turned teasing. “Of course, women go through all kinds of trouble for the perfect arch. But you, Tom—lucky you—you won’t have to worry about maintenance.”

Claire didn’t need further instruction. She reached into her kit again and withdrew a narrow case containing ultra-realistic brow strips, each one shaped with a delicate taper and dark, feminine arch. Opening the glue, she began aligning them carefully along his smooth, hairless brow line.

“Same adhesive as before,” Emma said lightly. “Once they’re on, they’re not coming off until I say so.”

Claire pressed the strips firmly into place, smoothing the edges until they sat seamlessly against the skin. Emma nodded, satisfied. “So, much better—but we’re missing something, don’t you think? We need a bit of sparkle—something that jingles and jangles when she tosses her hair.”

“Hoops?” Claire asked, pulling a pair of earrings from her case.

Emma’s grin deepened. “Perfect.”

Claire laid out a small piercing kit and a tub of antiseptic, then moved toward Tom. With steady hands, she positioned the piercer and pulled the trigger. A soft metallic snap—then another. Two neat holes, one on each side. Without hesitation, she threaded a pair of chunky gold hoops through Tom’s pierced lobes and sealed each clasp with a dollop of glue.

Emma admired the result, her voice low and smooth. “Oh, they really suit your new look, Tom.” She leaned in close, her words dripping with mock sweetness. “And guess what? You won’t ever have to take them out. That glue will keep them exactly where they belong.”

(See image 05)

She glanced up at the clock on the wall and let out a soft, amused sigh. “Oh, would you look at the time? There’s me prattling on, and we’ve still got so much to do.” Turning to Claire, she added, “What’s next on the agenda?”

“Makeup,” Claire replied without hesitation. “That would make the most sense.”

Emma nodded approvingly. “Of course. Can’t have a proper secretary without a full face, can we?” She stood up and smoothed her blazer. “I might grab a coffee then. Would you like one, Claire?”

“No, I’m fine,” Claire replied, already setting out her inks and sterilised equipment.

“Suit yourself.” Emma’s gaze flicked to Tom, her smile sharpening. “Now, this next part might take a while, so I’m going to step out for a moment. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

She paused, watching his frozen face. A small laugh escaped her. “Oh, silly me — I should’ve asked that before the Botox. Never mind. I’m sure you’ll cope.”

With that, she strode to the door, opened it slowly, glanced left and right, then slipped quietly out.

============

When Emma returned, the room felt still — the kind of hush that followed a sizable task. Claire stood beside Tom, tidying her tools into neat rows, her expression calm and professional.

Emma closed the door quietly, took a step forward, stopping to take in the sight before her. Tom’s lips were swollen and glistening, a deep, glossy red somewhere between crimson and cherry. Around his eyes, a dark, perfectly even line of tattooed pigment framed his stare.

Emma’s face lit with delight. “Oh, Claire, that’s marvellous. Look at him!” she said, stepping forward to admire her handiwork. She leaned in close to her ex-husband’s face, inspecting the crisp edges of the eyeliner and the glossy sheen of his lips. “You’re very lucky, Tom. You’ll never know the pain of trying to do your eye makeup on a moving bus on the way into work or reapplying lipstick after lunch. You’ll wake up picture-perfect every single morning.”

Her tone shifted to something teasing. “Of course, you can always go a little heavier for a night out… or a hot date.”

Claire gave a quiet chuckle, closing her kit. “You’ve come back at just the right time. The bonding adhesive I spread over his scalp is just right now — tacky enough to apply the new hair.”

Emma’s eyes lit up, the corners of her mouth curling in satisfaction. “Did you get the picture I sent?”

Claire nodded. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I managed to find something very similar.”

“Oh fantastic,” Emma said brightly, turning to Tom. “You hear that, Tommika, you’ll have hair just like her.”

(See image 06)

Claire lifted a long platinum-blonde wig from her bag — thick, glossy, and disturbingly lifelike. She held it up, and Emma’s eyes lit with the pleased, predatory satisfaction of someone watching a multi-step plan come together.

“Perfect,” Emma said approvingly. “That’s exactly what he likes.”

Claire gave the wig a brisk shake, brushing through the platinum strands before carefully easing it over Tom’s smooth scalp. She adjusted the front hairline with care, coaxing the fall so that soft waves framed his face. A few quiet snips shaped the ends, and with practiced precision, she styled the new hair into a loose, flattering arrangement.

Emma watched every movement, entranced. Then, turning to the motionless man, her voice dropped into a purr. “Oh, look at you,” she said with a Cheshire-cat smile. “You look so dumb. So clueless. But I suppose I’ll have to get used to it — because starting Monday, Miss Tommika Suckwell begins her new role.”

As she spoke, Claire continued fussing over his new hair, tucking a strand neatly behind one ear.

Emma paused to admire the sight before continuing. “You see, just before this little meeting, I had a chat with your lovely Beckie. And I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse — well, one she didn’t want to: a nice pay rise and indefinite vacation. Naturally, she jumped at it. So, with her position vacant, I went into the system and created a replacement. That replacement,” she said, letting the word hang, “is you. You’ll be taking over Beckie’s duties as Mr Sorenson’s secretary — personal errands, scheduling, and whatever else he might need.”

Leaning closer, Emma’s tone cooled, every word deliberate. “And in case you’re considering anything silly, like reporting us, or trying to reclaim your old life — I’ve taken precautions. There’s now a lovely paper trail suggesting you’ve embezzled company funds and vanished. In truth, that money’s covering Beckie’s leave… and paying for Claire’s expertise today.”

She let the words linger, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You could try to clear your name, of course. But that would mean attention — investigations, interviews — and by then, everyone will have seen you like this. Do you think they’ll believe your story? Do you think you’ll ever walk back into this office again as Tom?”

She smiled faintly. “So, two options. You can fight — drag the company through audits and lawsuits while your name’s torn apart in the press. Or…” She leaned back, voice softening to a razor-edged calm. “You can take your punishment like a man. Work a few months in your new role. Do as you’re told. Keep your head down… and ride it out. You’ll get the solvent to that glue, and you can take some of that vacation time you’ve been saving up — until you’re feeling like your old self again.” She paused, eyes fixed on him. “It’s the least messy option. But… it’s your choice. I’m willing to face the fallout either way.”

Her expression hardened. “You took everything from me, Tom — I’ve got nothing left to lose. The real question is…” Her words lingered, slow and deliberate. “What are you willing to lose? Your pride… or your life as you know it?”

Silence. Tom sat like a wax figure, eyes wide and unblinking, the new Barbie girl hair framing his altered face.

Emma chuckled softly. “Oh, right — still can’t speak.” She turned to Claire, who had just stepped back from her work. “How’s the hair coming along?”

“Just about done,” Claire replied with a small smile.

“It looks fantastic,” Emma said warmly. “You’ve really outdone yourself. But I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss.” She tucked a strand of her own hair behind her ear and glanced between them. “Are you okay to finish up here? You know what to do?”

“Make the body match the head — then get him dressed in something appropriate,” Claire replied with a nod. “I’ll tidy up and slip out the back when I’m done.”

“You’re a godsend.” Emma gave a satisfied nod, turning back to Tom. “Think about what I said. I’ll either see you on Monday… or in court.”

(See image 07)

She looked to Claire once more. “Thank you for today. I’ll have the rest of your payment wired tonight.”

With one last lingering look over her shoulder, a calm, satisfied smile curving Emma’s lips. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Suckwell,” she said firmly before turning sharply on her heels and marching from the room.

============

Hours later, Tom began to feel the first flickers of movement returning to his body. The ability to blink came first—a small mercy, since his eyes had grown painfully dry. Claire had been kind enough to put drops in earlier, but she’d left at least an hour ago—though time had lost all meaning. For all he knew, he’d been sitting in that office chair for a lifetime.

Next came his fingers. A faint twitch at first, then a slow, shaky tap against the leather armrest. The sensation was strange — the surface felt distant, dulled by the long, rigid extensions superglued over his own nails. The movement brought no comfort — only the sick realisation that his body was altered beyond recognition.

It wasn’t long before he managed to move his head, the stiffness in his neck easing just enough for him to glance downward. His stomach turned at the sight. The talons jutting from his fingertips were a glossy, candy-apple red — bright and bold under the office light. They had transformed his hands from masculine to feminine, but they weren’t what made his breath hitch.

Above, his chest encased in red silk, rose and fell. Two spherical mounds strained against the fabric, pressed tightly together to form an impressive cleavage that looked even larger from his seated angle. He didn’t need to touch the heavy breast forms to know they weren’t coming off — he’d sat there helplessly while Claire glued them firmly in place with her special adhesive.

Straining his neck further, he managed to peer over the new swell of his chest, his eyes widening — lashes fluttering involuntarily — as his gaze travelled down to his legs. He was still wearing a skirt and tights, although the sensation was completely different. His skin, freshly waxed and stripped bare, made the thin fabric feel far too intimate. The pain of Claire waxing his whole body hadn’t been as bad as when she’d worked on his face and head, but the memory of sitting through it would haunt him for a long time.

Now, every inch of his lower half felt wrong. The tights clung to his smooth legs like a second skin, and the skirt — a much shorter pleated miniskirt replacing the modest knee-length one he’d worn before — sat high on his nylon-clad thighs. It felt snug around his hips and backside, where Claire had glued thick pads to exaggerate his shape. The result left him feeling exposed and ridiculous.

But even that wasn’t the worst of it.

His eyes dropped lower, holding his breath. His lower legs were encased in glossy black leather boots that climbed to his thighs, each perched on a towering seven-inch heel. Tom swallowed hard as the memory surfaced: Claire kneeling at his feet, methodically coating the bottoms of his nylon-clad feet with glue, pressing them into the steeply angled boots, then sealing the zips with the same long-lasting adhesive. A cold shiver ran through him. He wasn’t wearing them — he was trapped in them.

The strength in Tom’s body returned slowly, in uneven waves. He sat in the chair, angry, confused, and terrified — every breath shallow and uneven. He could feel everything now: the tightness across his face, the unnatural pull of the skin where it had been smoothed and filled, the pressure of his swollen lips, and the faint tug of glue wherever Claire’s handiwork bound him.

When he tried to stand, his body refused at first. The muscles in his legs felt heavy and uncoordinated, and the steep angle of his heels threw his balance completely off. It took several attempts — each one punctuated by a frustrated grunt and the squeak of leather on leather as his boots pressed against the office chair.

The moment he finally stood upright, the room seemed to tilt. He swayed and threw his arms out for balance, his head spinning as his muscles strained against the steep, impractical arch of the heels. Every shaky movement made his body jiggle and wobble, the padding exaggerating each motion.

He lurched forward, catching himself on the desk as a curtain of platinum-blonde hair slid over his frozen face. The soft strands caught in his thick eyelashes, clinging to his glossy lips as he struggled to push them aside safely with his long nails.

Using his desk for support, he started his escape, edging his way around to the front, breath ragged, chest heaving and barely contained inside a low cut top. When he finally stopped, he leaned back for balance, trying to steady his racing pulse. Then something in the room caught his attention — a reflection.

His eyes widened.

The sight hit him like a hammer blow.

Staring back at him was a stranger — a grotesque, overdone caricature of a woman in a secretary’s outfit. Her chest thrust out, her skirt indecently short, her lips overfilled and glistening beneath waves of platinum-blonde hair, standing trembling on seven-inch heels.

His body shook, his plumped lips parted, and a broken, gargled sound tore from his throat — half gasp, half scream — echoing around the empty office.

(See image 08)

Tom, on the edge of a nervous breakdown, bolted for the door — stumbling wildly in his towering heels but somehow managing to stay upright. He grabbed the handle, flung it open, and spilled out into the corridor, his balance only saved by slamming both long-nailed hands against the opposite wall. His palms squeaked against the paint, the only thing keeping him from toppling over.

Behind him, the office door swung shut with a loud slam. For a split second, there was silence — then the unmistakable sound of a man clearing his throat.

Tom’s head whipped around, his mane of blonde hair flying, and his blood ran cold. Standing a few feet away was Domanik Sorenson.

(See image 09)

Their mutual hatred was no secret. They’d been rivals for years — competing for the same promotions, the same contracts, and, more recently, the same woman. Beckie. Tom had usually come out on top, but standing here dressed like this was a humiliation he would never live down.

Domanik’s brow lifted slightly as he took in the sight before him. Then he smiled.
“Ah, you must be my new secretary, Miss Suckwell? Emma Lockwood said you’d be dropping by tonight for a briefing on your new role. Though,” he added with a quick glance at his watch, “I was just about to head out.”

Tom froze. His mind spiralled in panic. Did Domanik really believe he was his new secretary? Didn’t he recognise him?

“I’m sorry that was rude of me,” Domanik said smoothly, noticing the sheer terror in Tom’s eyes. “Please, we’ve got time. My office is just this way. If you’ll follow me?”

He smiled again and gestured down the corridor.

Tom’s heart pounded so hard he thought he might faint. In that moment, he had a decision to make — and although the last thing in the world he wanted to do was follow his smug rival into his office while pretending to be his slutty new secretary, the alternative somehow seemed worse.

“Erm… yeah… okay,” Tom stammered in a faltering imitation of a woman’s voice.

Domanik’s grin widened. “Excellent. Follow me, Miss Suckwell.”

And with that, Tom took a hesitant step forward — the echoing click of his seven-inch heels marking the moment he sealed his fate.

===========

A month later.

Tommika Suckwell — as he was now known — sat at his desk, staring at the clock on the wall. It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long month. His scalp itched constantly beneath the wig, his back ached from carrying the weight of the heavy breast forms, and his feet — though somewhat adjusted to their permanent arch — only ached now instead of throbbed.

His days in the office had become a miserable blend of humiliation and boredom. He spent most of them sitting behind his glass desk, nylon-clad legs crossed neatly for everyone to see. Emma didn’t make things any easier — she was always calling him down to HR, inventing some flimsy reason just to watch him mince in on his heels and squirm through another pointless meeting. She was revelling in his misery, but he’d smile through it and refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.

He was constantly uncomfortable one way or another, but at least he’d been left with the ability to change outfits, wash, and use the restroom — although even that small mercy came with limits. With the boots and tights permanently in place, his choices were reduced to a rotation of skirts and dresses. Not that anyone expected anything else from Miss Suckwell.

As the minute hand inched its way upward, he silently counted down the last few minutes until he could leave. Six to go. He could almost taste freedom.

Then the phone rang.

The shrill sound sliced through the quiet office, sending a cold shiver down his spine. Tommika hesitated for a moment, staring at the phone as if it might bite. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reached out carefully, mindful of his nails. The long red talons curled around the receiver as he lifted it to his ear — and even before the voice spoke, he already knew what it was going to be about.

“Miss Suckwell,” came Mr Sorenson’s smooth, commanding tone. “Can I see you in my office before you clock out for the day?”

Tom swallowed. “Y-yes, Mr Sorenson,” he said softly, his voice hesitant and reluctant. “I’ll be right in.”

(See image 10)

Pressing his hands against the desk, Tommika hoisted his feminised frame upright, releasing a weary sigh through his bloated lips as his tortured feet once again took his weight. Straightening his short skirt with both hands, he set forth, mincing the short distance to his boss’s office. He gave a gentle knock — more out of formality than courtesy — and stepped inside before Mr Sorenson could respond.

He closed the door quietly behind him and stood to attention, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Domanik just stared at him, silent, expression unreadable. The longer it went on, the more Tommika’s skin crawled, and in that moment, he hated the man more than he ever thought possible.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Tommika stood stiffly, refusing to give the bastard the reaction he wanted. But with Domanik’s eyes slowly roaming over him — undressing him piece by piece — the silence became unbearable.

“You wanted to see me, Mr Sorenson?” he said at last, his voice tight and fragile under the strain.

“Yes, it’s been quite the day,” Mr Sorenson said as he rose from behind his desk. “I’m in need of some relaxation — the kind only you can provide, Miss Suckwell.”

Tommika drew a heavy breath and nodded. The words were no surprise; there was only ever one reason Mr Sorenson called him in this late.

Without another word, he tottered to the far side of the room and lowered himself to his knees, the stiff leather of his boots creaking as he bent into position. It was the only time those boots offered any kind of comfort - their thigh-high length protecting and cushioning his nylon-clad knees from the rough carpet below.

For a moment, he stayed there, motionless, staring down— the picture of obedience, resignation, and quiet dread.

Hearing the sound of a zipper, Tommika looked up and parted his bee-stung lips. He knew what to do — it wasn’t his first time. And he knew the quicker he got it over with, the quicker he could go home.

(See image 11)

Unfortunately for Tommika, it wouldn’t be quick — it was never quick. Domanik Sorenson knew exactly who was looking up at him through those thick, extended lashes, and he liked to make it last.

The End