It was midafternoon, and Martin had just finished up around the house. The grass was cut, the gutters were cleared out, and the kitchen smelled lemon fresh. The garage, he decided, could stay a mess for another weekend. Having nothing left on the to-do list meant he could finally crack a beer and kick back. He pulled one from the fridge and dropped onto the couch, flipping on the Cubs game. It was already in the fourth inning, runners on first and second, with Pete Crow-Armstrong at the plate. He tuned in at just the right time.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Looking down, he saw it was Erica calling. They’d been tight once, but lately she only reached out when she needed something. The last time it was to carry a dresser up three flights of stairs. He debated letting it ring out, then picked up.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Don’t hang up. I need a huge favor.”

He took a sip of his beer. “Of course you do. What is it this time?”

“There’s this big party tonight, a pop-star themed thing. We’ve been planning it forever.”

Crow-Armstrong hit into a double play. He muted the game and sat forward. “Okay…”

“Me and the girls are doing the Spice Girls. Hair, outfits, the whole thing. Kelly was our Posh, but she bailed like two hours ago.”

“Ran off with a David Beckham lookalike?”

“Martin! I’m in a panic here. We’ve got weeks of work put in this night. It was supposed to be perfect.”

“Ok, so what do you need from me?”

“I want you to take her place.”

He scoffed. “You want me to be Posh Spice?”

“You’ve got the right frame,” she said. “You’re wiry, your hair’s already close, and you’ve got cheekbones that would kill with a little contour.”

Martin laughed under his breath. “This is a joke, right?”

“Martin.” Her tone became less playful. “We can’t have the Spice Girls without Posh. Please? I’ll do your makeup and lend you the dress. We’ve got ankle boots in your size, only a small heel, so you should be fine in them. All you have to do is show up and act the part.”

He couldn’t believe that he was actually considering it. The idea of squeezing into a dress and going out in public should’ve made him squirm. Instead, it had him thinking. Back to that one afternoon when curiosity got the better of him and he slipped into a pair of his mom’s heels, and pulled a dress over his head. It was fun, and he felt fancy. Then he remembered the look on his dad’s face. And how it made sure he never did it again.

He could barely admit it to himself, much less Erica, but there was something about her offer that stirred parts of his imagination.

“I don’t know…” he said.

“You’ll look hot. Trust me. Come to my place after dinner. We’ll make it happen.”

“Let me think about it.”

“I’ll see you at 7.” She hung up before he could argue or say no.

Martin stared at his phone, then glanced down at himself. His slim torso, lean legs, he could picture himself in a dress. He thought it was strange that Erica thought of him for the role, but he had to give it to her because, on some level, it made sense. Still though, the whole thing was ridiculous… except, maybe it wasn’t.

Martin stood at the bottom of Erica’s front steps, hand hovering near the doorbell. There was still time to back out. He could say he wasn’t feeling well, that something came up, or just be blunt and say that he didn’t want to show up at the party dressed as a female pop icon.

But none of that was true, and he pressed the button.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. Erica stood in the hallway glow, big red hair with a few strands in front dyed blond, flawless makeup, shimmering cheeks and glossy lips. She looked ready for the stage, excluding the bathrobe. Thick white cotton, tied loose at the waist, showing smooth legs and just enough cleavage to make it a little hard to keep eye contact.

“Hey, you,” she said, grinning. “Get in here.”

Martin stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him. Her place smelled like the effort a woman put into getting ready for a night out, perfume mixed with hairspray, and something else—maybe incense or a scented candle. The ground floor was lit with soft lighting, and the speakers in the living room belted out a 90’s pop playlist, too loud to talk over. Erica turned it down now that he had arrived.

“You look…” He stalled out halfway through the sentence.

“Absolutely brilliant?”

“I was gonna say committed.”

“Good,” she said with a smile, pressing a glass of white wine into his hand. “Because that’s what you’re about to be.”

They moved into the bedroom, and Martin sat on the edge of the bed while Erica moved around the space, collecting tools like she was setting up for a transformation montage. Her Ginger Spice outfit, a tight Union Jack patterned minidress, was tossed over a chair with tall platform heels at the side. The vanity looked like a war zone of brushes, palettes, and tubes with worn labels. Her vibe was bright, easy, humming with momentum. Some of his nerves started to give way.

“I know this is a big ask,” she said, sliding her fingers through his hair from behind. “But can I give you a little trim? Nothing major. Just shape it up a bit.”

Martin tensed for half a second, then caught their reflection in the mirror. Her expression was focused, like she saw something in her head and was figuring out how to make it real.

“You didn’t say anything about a haircut.”

“Not a cut, just a trim. It’s a tad long. Then I’ll part it down the middle, and curl the ends a bit. Posh had that sleek, high-gloss look. We can get it close enough. You’ve already got the bone structure. Your cheeks and jawline are fab. I just need to bring them out. The right framing will help.”

He had a moment of doubt, but the wine had settled into his chest, and the way Erica’s hands ran through his hair made him feel calm. “Fine,” he said. “But if you screw it up—”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks and you can get it fixed by that old man you always go to.”

“Sal does a great job,” he insisted. “Good, anyway.”

Erica rolled her eyes and gave him a funny look.

She reached for her shears and got to work. The snips were small, barely more than flyaways hitting the floor, but each one was a small improvement. Martin let it all happen. He didn’t move, unless he was asked to tilt his head. He just sat there while she sculpted him into something closer to her vision, and he was starting to see it too now.

When she finished, she angled his chin toward the mirror. “Perfect,” she said.

Martin studied his reflection. It still looked like him. A little sharper around the edges, with cleaner lines. Different, but still him.

“Alright,” she said, already moving to the bed. “Let’s talk wardrobe.”

She spread out three dresses. One was a black mini with a neckline that would come straight across his chest. The second shimmered silver, loose on the bed but clearly meant to cling once it was on. The third was white, tight, with mesh panels cut low along the sides.

He stared at the dresses, then gave up. “I don’t know… I don’t care. Pick one for me. It doesn’t matter.”

Erica gave him a look. She wasn’t fooled by his feigned indifference. She could tell that he was interested, already predicting he’d pick the black one. She saw the way he looked at it. “Okay,” she said. “Think about it while I do your makeup.”

He took his seat at the vanity and lifted the wine to his lips. She moved in behind him, sorting through her brushes and palettes, then leaned in and touched his face. Her fingers were light, professional, but the way she touched him made him feel exposed in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Your skin’s stupid smooth,” she said. “You shaved today?”

“Right before I came over.”

She caught his eyes in the mirror. “So you were thinking ahead. Don’t act like you’re not into this.”

He looked away, but he couldn’t stop the smile. She had a point.

She started with primer, then foundation. Every stroke had intention. The blending had to be smooth. Her hands never rushed. She worked in silence, pausing now and then to study his face like it was a puzzle coming together. As she contoured along his nose, she muttered something to herself, sounding more curious than critical, and made adjustments as she went.

“These tones blend really well with your skin,” she said, mostly to herself. “You make a believable Posh. I knew you would.”

Martin didn’t say much. He just sat there, letting Erica and the wine do their things. During it all, he felt something come over him, though. He fought it at first, but every stroke of her brush chipped away at whatever resistance he had. This wasn’t just a gag anymore. It felt like stepping into something else. Not a costume or a joke. Something real. A part of himself he hadn’t felt since his father scolded him.

She saved the lashes for last. “Don’t blink,” she said, steadying his chin with her fingers. She pressed each one into place with care. When she finished, she stood back and admired her work.

“Okay,” she said, turning the mirror toward him. “Meet Posh.”

Martin looked.

The face staring back at him looked like someone he should know, but didn't. He’d been transformed. The jaw looked softer, the lips fuller, the lashes so bold they almost seemed animated. He stared for a second, caught off guard by the reflection. There was something familiar in the eyes. They were his, but more honest.

“I don’t even recognize myself,” he said quietly.

“Good,” Erica replied. “That’s the point.”

She turned back to the bed, shifting to the outfits. “It’s time. Shirt and pants off. Let’s get you into a dress.”

He hesitated for a second before pulling his T-shirt over his head, careful not to brush up against his makeup or tussle his hair too much. Then he stepped out of his jeans. He stood there in just his boxer shorts, as a sliver of self-consciousness crept back in. But Erica didn’t allow it to take hold. She pointed to the bed and focused his attention on the dresses.

“Which one’s it gonna be?”

Martin scanned them again. The black one felt right. The clean lines and the cut spoke to him. He could already picture himself in it.

“That one,” he said, brushing the other two aside, leaving the black one.

Erica smiled. She knew it.

“How do I even get it on?”

She turned to the dresser and opened the top drawer. “First things first,” she said. “You can’t wear boxers under that. They’re too long. They’ll peek out the bottom.”

She held up a pair of black lace panties.

“You’re serious?”

Her eyes move from his down to his underwear. “Martin,” she said. “I can literally see you getting hard.”

His hands moved on instinct, trying to cover himself.

“Relax,” she said, stepping closer. “It’s cute, honestly. But if we’re gonna slide that dress on without it looking like a circus tent, we’re going to have to take care of that.”

Her robe grazed his stomach as she stopped in front of him, the warmth of her body just brushing his.

“I’d suck it for you,” she said, staring at him, “but I don’t want to do my makeup again.” She smiled, close enough for him to feel her breath. “How about a handjob? Call it a thank-you for being a good sport.”

Martin didn’t even get a word out before she was guiding him to the edge of the bed. Her hands moved, slipping into his waistband, and pulled his boxers down around his thighs. He was already hard.

She knelt in front of him, the robe falling open just enough for him to see her breasts. She’d been naked under it the whole time. Her hand wrapped around him like it hadn’t been years since the last time. She started with a slow rhythm, easing herself into it as much as him. She remembered what it felt like to have his cock in her hand, and his body responded like it remembered, too.

They’d hooked up before, but this was different. It didn’t happen after a night of shots and late-night fog, where they could pretend it didn’t happen the following morning. This was just her hand stroking him with her eyes locked on his. She moved her mouth close to the tip and teased it with her tongue. She pulled back when he pushed forward.

“My makeup,” she reminded him, still smiling.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

“This is really turning you on, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re throbbing. Feels like you’re right on the edge already.”

Martin let out a groan as he nodded his head in agreement. It wasn’t just her hand. It was everything. The makeup, the hair, the panties, the dress waiting on the bed. The fact that in a few minutes, he’d be wearing all of it.

Erica glanced up at him with a knowing look in her eyes. Like she knew exactly what was going through his head.

“You look so good like this,” she whispered in a sultry voice. “All done up, pretty, squirming while I jerk you off.”

He looked over at the mirror. The face staring back at him was flushed, mouth open, lashes dark and heavy above wide eyes. Her grip tightened on his shaft, working him harder now, but it was that image, seeing himself like this that did it.

“You can’t wait to put those panties on, can you?” she whispered.

His hips jerked forward, and he came hard, thick streaks of cum shooting onto Erica’s robe. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run some stairs. Erica didn’t budge. She just kept stroking him through it until he was drained.

She looked at him for a long second, then down at her hand. In that moment, it clicked. All evening, she’d thought she was creating a character. But Martin had been showing her a part of himself that had been buried for too long.

“No guy who isn’t into this finishes that fast, or that hard.”

She handed him a towel to clean up, then held out the panties for him. He took them, still catching his breath.

“I don’t want to harsh your afterglow, but we’re already running a little behind,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Martin stepped into the lace. The fabric was thin, snug, barely there, but it hugged his hips in a way that felt comfortable, like it belonged there. Erica held the dress open for him and helped him slide it on. She zipped it up in the back with careful hands.

The fit was better than he expected. The dress pulled in at the waist, framed his chest, and made him look longer. He didn’t look like a guy in a dress. He looked like a guy who belonged in a dress.

While he adjusted the seam in the mirror, Erica changed into her own outfit behind him. The Union Jack looked perfect on her. It clung tight as she moved around the room with casual confidence, like she was born in it.

They added finishing touches, clip-on hoops, a few bangles, and a black choker that sat snug at his throat. Erica passed him a pair of ankle boots.

“Like I told you on the phone, just a small heel. Walking shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, stepping into her massive platforms. “They go with the dress, and you won’t hate me after an hour.”

Martin nodded. He kept shifting between feeling something surreal and something completely normal. Like his mind needed to catch up to what his body was already telling him. The makeup, the dress, the hair, all of it felt right.

Erica glanced at the time. “Shit. We were supposed to meet up out front 10 minutes ago and all walk in together. The girls are probably already at the bar.”

They called an Uber. When it pulled up, Erica and Martin climbed into the backseat. The driver gave them a quick look in the mirror, then smiled.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” he said, “you ladies look stunning tonight.”

Martin froze for half a second. Then Erica reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

“Told you you’d look hot,” she said.

He looked at her. Then at their reflection in the window, and smiled.