Chapter Two: The Appointment

The website looked discreet but warm: Ava & Co. Transformations—NYC’s Premier MTF Makeover Studio. Tasteful before-and-afters. Testimonials that sounded like whispered confessions. A calendar widget with a few weekday openings and a handful of Saturday slots that vanished as he hovered over them, like they were frightened of his indecision.

Arjun booked a Tuesday evening under the name “A. Patel.” It took him half an hour to press confirm and three seconds to pray he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

The studio sat on the third floor of an old brick building near Union Square, with a buzzer that announced visitors in a confident little trill. When the door clicked, he climbed the stairs with a thrum in his chest, palms damp, collar too tight. He’d worn a navy polo and chinos, the most invisible version of himself. On the landing he paused, drew a breath, and opened the final door.

Inside: soft lights, a faint scent of powder and something floral, music just on the edge of hearing. The space felt like a cross between a salon and a boutique—mirrors with bulbs like halos, racks of clothes organized by color, and a small sitting area with a velvet loveseat and a vase of peonies blooming like secrets.

“Aria?” The woman at the desk stood and smiled, the sort of smile that meant your name—your chosen name—would be safe here. She was tall and willowy, late thirties perhaps, with a platinum bob and keen, kind eyes. “I’m Ava. Welcome.”

Arjun felt the name slide over him like a sigh of relief. “Hi. Yes. I, um… thanks for seeing me.”

“Of course.” She glanced at her tablet, then back at him. “This is your first time with a professional studio, yes? We’ll go slow. You’re here for the Signature Transformation: consultation, makeup, hair, pads and cinching if you want them, two outfits, and a mini shoot to help you remember how stunning you are.”

The word stunning made something in his stomach flip. He followed her past a curtain into a private dressing room with a full-length mirror and a small table laid out like an altar: foundation palettes, lipsticks, false lashes. “You can hang your things there,” she said. “There’s water, and tea, and—” she tilted her head— “permission to breathe.”

He laughed, a little ragged. “I didn’t know I needed that.”

“We all do.” Ava handed him a silk robe. “If you’re comfortable, change into this. I’ll get your forms and a couple of corset options. Your measurements are close to a few of our sample sizes—lucky you.”

While she slipped away, Arjun undressed, folding his polo with his usual neatness, and put on the robe. The silk hugged his shoulders, cool at first and then warm with his skin. He looked in the mirror. Without the armor of clothes, without any illusion yet in place, he still saw Arjun: precise, careful. But the robe did something to his posture, and the way the sash knotted at his waist hinted at lines he’d only imagined.

Ava returned carrying a tidy stack: a nude silicone breastplate, two pairs of foam hip pads, and two corsets—one matte black, one a ridiculous, glorious blush with satin laces. “We’ll try both,” she said, clinical and gentle. “Tell me if anything pinches. Consent is our most important tool.”

He nodded, heat rising to his face at the word breastplate. He’d read about them. Melissa had used something more basic for the lavender dress—the thought sent a flash of silk down his spine—but this was… serious. Ava’s hands were deft but respectful as she showed him how to roll the silicone over his shoulders, how to settle the weight so it felt like part of him and not a costume. The sudden heaviness made him gasp; the way it lay against his sternum felt intimate, like a secret hand.

“You okay?” Ava asked, watching his reflection rather than his face.

“Yes,” he said, quieter than he meant to. “More than okay.”

“Good.” She slid the matte corset around his waist. “Exhale for me.” He obeyed, and the laces pulled, a steady tug that narrowed him into an hourglass he’d only seen in silhouette. The pressure was firm and encompassing, a hug that wouldn’t let go. Arjun found his breath coming smaller, higher, and strangely—it soothed him. “Too tight?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and surprised himself with the yearning in his voice. “Maybe a little more.”

Ava’s brow lifted, approving. “You’ll be a quick study.” She finished the lacing, then set the hip pads against him, shaping a curve from waist to thigh. Suddenly the robe hung differently, skimming contours that had never been there. He swallowed, watching his body reorganize itself into something that made sense in a way he’d never articulated. It felt like the answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d asked.

“Makeup next,” Ava said. “Come sit.”

He settled into the chair; it embraced him like it had been waiting. Ava’s touch moved across his face with the focus of a ritual—primer smoothing the canvas, foundation melting away the day, contour carving cheekbones he’d never seen, a hint of peach correcting the blue of his beard shadow. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, and he did, surrendering to the sweep of a brush, the slick coolness of cream on his lids, the tickle of mascara. She filled in his brows with feathery strokes that softened his whole expression; he felt his mouth loosen, his jaw unclench. When she painted his lips—a precise bow, a little fuller than his natural shape—the first swipe made his breath hitch. He tasted vanilla and something like rose, felt the pad of her thumb press the color into place.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she said. “Look.”

In the mirror: a face that belonged to him and not to him, as if he were meeting an old friend. The eyes were his—curious, careful—but framed in a way that drew them out, made them speak. The mouth… it almost smiled on its own.

“Hair,” Ava said, and set a wig stand beside the station. “We’ll try a few. Shoulder-length to start—soft layers, side part.” The wig she chose was a deep, glossy brown, not quite black, and the way it caught light reminded him of monsoon evenings on the balcony when he’d been a boy, watching rain braid the air. She adjusted a cap over his hair, set the lace front along his forehead, and pressed, blending. When she clipped a few pieces back to shape the face, he watched his reflection steady, align. She teased the crown, sprayed, then released the clips. Hair fell in a gentle curtain along his jaw and neck. It did something to his posture again; he sat taller.

“First outfit,” Ava said, almost businesslike—as if they hadn’t just rewritten reality. She led him to the racks and pulled three options. “A navy sheath with a neckline that spotlights your collarbones; a blush wrap dress that’s very forgiving and very dangerous; or a black pencil skirt with a silk blouse that says CFO by day, thief of hearts by night.”

Arjun laughed, arousal and nerves threaded together. “Wrap dress,” he said, surprising himself again.

“Excellent.” She handed it to him, along with a matching set of lingerie—simple but pretty, with a whisper of lace. “These are sanitized and laundered; if you like anything, we can sell you a fresh set. I’ll step out.”

He changed slowly, a minute stretching long enough to fit new skin. The panties slid up his thighs and settled around the shape Ava had made for him; the bra clasped and hugged the silicone forms until they felt, even more than before, like they’d grown there. The wrap dress swished as he drew it around himself, tied at the waist, and then—he turned. The mirror reflected a woman lines had been written for. The color made his skin look luminous. The neckline was modest until he moved; then the hint of a V suggested secrets. He touched the fabric without thinking, fingertips gliding over the place where breast met silk, and a pulse of heat unfurled low and insistent.

A knock. “Ready to show me?” Ava’s voice held a smile.

“Yes,” he said, and it came out husky.

She stepped in and paused, taking him in with a professional’s calibration and a friend’s pleasure. “Aria,” she said softly, “you’re breathtaking.”

The word landed like a hand on his back, encouraging him forward. She brought out heeled sandals—two inches, a good training height—and guided him through a few steps, hips remembering the new geometry. “Think about lengthening,” she coached. “Your knees brush past each other, your steps are a little narrower. Imagine you’re pouring yourself forward.”

He moved, and the dress swayed like it was applauding. Ava stood close to adjust his posture, one palm at his shoulder blade, the other hovering near his hip—not touching, not quite. The nearness felt electric. He caught her eyes in the mirror, saw the way her pupils dilated just slightly, and felt the answering warmth bloom again. This was practice, yes, but it was also… attention. Being seen with a kind of precision that felt like desire wearing a lab coat.

“Second outfit,” she said after a breath that seemed to belong to both of them. “Let’s do the pencil skirt. It will change your gait again.”

He changed, more confident now, sliding into a black skirt that hugged his new hips and a cream silk blouse whose buttons were small and fussy and worth every second. Nude tights. Closed-toe pumps. When he turned, the skirt turned a half-beat later, like the tail of a comet. Ava selected a delicate pendant, fastened it at his nape, and let her fingers linger—a half-second longer than necessary—on his skin. His breath hitched again.

“We’ll do a few photos,” she said, voice a touch lower. “Nothing you’re not comfortable with.” She switched on a softbox; light bloomed. “Lean on the stool. Cross your ankles. Perfect. Tilt your chin to the light… yes.”

The camera clicked. He felt oddly powerful and strangely submissive at once; the lens asked, and he gave. Ava’s direction was a murmur, a wave to ride. “Imagine you’re waiting for someone who always arrives a few minutes late, and every minute makes you want them more. That’s it. Soften your mouth. Let your eyes ask the question.”

He didn’t need to imagine too hard. The studio felt cocooned, the world beyond the door unreal. He could feel the corset, the cadence of the pumps, the line of the skirt when he shifted his weight. He could feel—clearly—the way desire changed the way he occupied space, the way it softened his wrists, the way it made his breath come in that higher register he’d first noticed when she tightened the laces.

Between shots, Ava stepped in to smooth a flyaway. The brush of her knuckles along his jaw was so featherlight that he swayed. She steadied him with a hand at his waist—pressure firm through silk and whalebone—and for a heartbeat their faces were close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes, smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

“Is this okay?” she asked, the question wrapped around more than posture.

“Yes,” he said. The word felt like opening a window.

They didn’t do more than that—no sudden kiss, no transgression. Instead she stood a fraction closer than she needed to for the rest of the session, and he floated in the charged space between their bodies, aware of every adjustment as if it were a sentence written on him. The photos became a dialogue: his mouth a little parted, her whisper a little warmer, his hand resting at the hollow of his throat as if cradling something tender and new.

When the last shutter fell, Ava lowered the camera slowly. “Would you like to see?”

He nodded. She scrolled through the images on the tethered screen. There he was—Aria—in the wrap dress, a softness in her eyes that made his own sting; in the skirt and blouse, a precise, poised want in the angle of her hip. He felt simultaneously exposed and protected—like the pictures had captured a truth and framed it safely. He couldn’t look away.

“You’re… real,” he said, barely above a whisper, not sure whether he meant the woman on the screen or the feeling in his chest.

“You are,” Ava said, and her hand found his forearm, warm and grounding. “That’s the only rule that matters here.”

They lingered. She showed him how to remove the wig carefully, how to cleanse the makeup without angering skin, how to unlace the corset slowly so the world didn’t rush back in too fast. He stood in the robe again, hair damp from a warm cloth, his face bare. He expected the crash—the sudden shame, the embarrassing clarity—but it didn’t come. He felt… tender, yes, but not foolish. Not at all.

At the front desk, Ava placed a small envelope in his hand. Inside was a card with a neat list—his foundation shade numbers, the brand of the lipstick they’d used, the wig style and code, the corset size. “So you don’t have to guess later,” she said. “And a link to your private gallery. Password protected.”

He swallowed. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“My pleasure,” she said, and there was warmth in the word that made him flush. “If you want to come back, I do a Friday night Salon once a month—small group, champagne, a chance to practice walking and chatting as your femme self. Low pressure. High sparkle.”

He tucked the envelope inside his jacket—still Arjun’s jacket, for now—and smiled. “I think I’d like that.”

On the train home, the city smeared by the window like wet paint, he could still feel the ghost of the corset, the phantom swing of the skirt, the way Ava’s fingers had steadied him at the waist. The gallery password sat in his pocket like a promise.

That night, he stood at his bathroom mirror and washed his face again, though it was clean, as if the ritual were part of keeping the feeling bright. He brushed his short hair and imagined the weight of the wig. He tried the wrap of a bath towel like a dress and laughed at himself, and then didn’t laugh, because the tug in his stomach wasn’t a joke.

He opened the envelope and ran a thumb along the list like it was a spell. He could buy one lipstick, he thought. Just one. A small, private ember he could cup in his palm. He imagined opening the tube, twisting it up, pressing color to his mouth, and the quiet sound he made startled him—part need, part relief.

Before sleeping, he opened the gallery link on his phone. The first photo filled the screen: Aria seated on the stool, ankles crossed, the pendant glinting at her throat. The expression in her eyes was a question and an answer.

He pressed the screen to make it bigger, and the room seemed to tilt. His body answered with a bright, insistent heat, a flush that rolled through him. He let his hand drift over his chest, found the remembered ache of where the forms had been, slid lower. The sensation brought him to the edge quickly, almost embarrassingly, and he let himself tip, eyes half-closed, breath catching just the way it had when Ava had cinched the corset. It was tender and hungry at once, the kind of release that felt like a confession.

After, he wiped his hand and laughed softly at himself—shy, delighted. He looked at the photo again and didn’t feel foolish. He felt claimed.

He dreamed of a room with soft light and peonies, of a woman with a platinum bob and gold in her eyes, of a shape in the mirror that belonged, and of a future where his hair grew and fell along his neck, where a pandemic would slow the world enough that the person inside him could catch up. In the morning, he woke with the taste of rose on his lips and the sure knowledge that he would return.