Chapter 7: The Audition Tape
The morning light that filtered through Tiff’s cheap blinds was unforgiving. It highlighted the glitter dust ground into the sheets, the empty lube bottle on the floor, the dark smear of mascara on the pillowcase. Ed blinked, consciousness returning like a slow, sick tide. Every muscle ached with a deep, unfamiliar tenderness. The memory of the night before unfolded in his mind not as a narrative, but as a series of brutal, vivid sensations: the stretch, the gagging, the name—Evie—screamed into a sweaty pillow.
He was alone in the bed. Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded his stomach. He sat up, the shiny black dress still twisted around his waist, the fishnets torn at the thighs. What had he done? Who had he become? He looked at his reflection in the foggy mirror across the room and saw a ruined clown.
The bathroom door opened with a creak. Steam billowed out, and Tiff emerged wrapped in a tiny, pink towel, her hair in a turban, her skin glistening. She smelled of candy-sweet body wash.
“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” she chirped, her voice bright. She didn’t look at him with disgust or triumph. She looked at him like he was a slightly messy but appreciated pet.
Ed opened his mouth, his voice a dry croak. “Tiff, I… last night…” The words ‘I’m sorry’ formed on his tongue, but they felt hollow, untrue. He wasn’t sorry for the pleasure, only for the fact that it had happened to Ed. And Ed felt like a ghost.
Tiff padded over and sat on the edge of the bed. She placed a damp, warm hand on his cheek. “What’s wrong, baby? You were amazing.”
He shuddered at her touch. The shame twisted, morphing into something else—a desperate, clawing need. The emptiness he felt wasn’t just spiritual; it was a physical hollow in his core, an echo of the fullness she had given him. He looked into her clear, uncomplicated eyes.
“Can you…” he started, his voice breaking. “Can you make me… her again? Please? Right now?”
A slow, radiant smile spread across Tiff’s face. It held no surprise, only a deep, giddy satisfaction. “Oh, Evie. You never left.” She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t the aggressive, probing kiss from the night before. It was soft, approving, but it tasted of her bubblegum lip gloss and something implicitly dirty. “My good girl just got a little lost in the morning. Let’s fix that.”
She pulled him by the hand to her cluttered vanity, a landscape of chaos illuminated by a ring light. She pushed him down onto the pink stool. “First, we need the right face.”
What followed was a transformation ritual. Tiff worked with the focused joy of an artist. She slathered a thick, peachy foundation onto his stubbled jaw, her fingers smoothing it down his neck. “Gotta cover up all that boy,” she murmured, almost to herself. She taped his eyelids, teaching him to look up, down, to the side, as she drew on exaggerated, black winged liner. Every instruction was gentle, possessive.
“My friend Darius,” she said conversationally as she clipped false lashes, each one a tiny, weighty fan. “He’s on the basketball team. Oh my god, Evie, you would die.” She giggled, a high, tinkling sound. “I mean, he’s gorgeous. Chocolate skin, these big, soft eyes. And the body? Ugh. All muscles. And he’s packing, baby. I’m talking a real, live BBC. Like, stupid big. The kind that makes you cross your eyes just thinking about it.”
As she spoke, she painted his lips with a thick, goopy pink, lining far outside his natural lip line to create a exaggerated, pouty shape. With each word about Darius, each detail of his imagined size, Ed felt a corresponding flutter in his stomach—a nervous thrill that had nothing to do with Ed Finch, computer science major.
He was evaporating. Evie was pooling in to fill the space.
“There!” Tiff exclaimed, spinning him to face the mirror.
Evie stared back. A caricature of femininity. The foundation was a mask, the eyes huge and doll-like, the lips a glossy, silicone-heavy pout. It was absurd. It was grotesque.
It was her.
Evie let out a giggle that sounded foreign and perfect. “Oh my gooood,” she slurred, imitating Tiff’s vocal fry. “I’m so pretty!”
“You’re a fucking masterpiece,” Tiff agreed, kissing her sloppily on the cheek, leaving a lip print. The kiss slid, messy, to Evie’s mouth. It was all tongue and gloss, a wet, noisy, cartoonish exchange. They kissed like they were trying to taste their own makeup, smearing pink across their cheeks and chins, giggling between gasps.
“Now for the audition,” Tiff said, breaking away, her own lipstick ruined.
“Audition?” Evie echoed, her brain feeling smooth and airy.
“For Darius, dummy! He doesn’t just let any sissy suck his dick. We gotta send him an application video. Show him what you’re made of.” Tiff rummaged in her pink case and pulled out the same foot-long dildo from the night before. It was clean now, but the memory of its stretch was visceral. “You’re gonna throat this like a champion. And I’m gonna play with that pretty, used bussy of yours.”
Tiff positioned her phone on a stack of textbooks, framing the bed. She pressed record. The little red light glowed.
“Okay, action!” Tiff directed, pushing Evie to her knees on the rug. The scratchy polyester of the dress rode up. Tiff stood before her, holding the dildo like a scepter. “Show him how empty your throat is.”
Evie didn’t need to be told twice. The sight of the silicone, the red light watching, the phantom weight of Darius’s described body—it short-circuited the last of Ed’s resistance. She opened her obscenely painted mouth and leaned forward, taking the head in with a loud, intentional slurp.
“Yeah, just like that,” Tiff moaned, for the camera, for her. She pushed. Evie relaxed her jaw, letting the thick length push down her throat. It hit the back, and she gagged violently, strings of spit dripping onto her chest. She didn’t pull back. She pushed her head forward, forcing more, until her nose was buried in the faux balls. Her eyes streamed, making black tracks through her foundation.
“Look at that dedication!” Tiff narrated. She shifted behind Evie, her fingers, slick with lube from a bottle she’d had ready, finding Evie’s exposed, still-loosened hole from the night before. One finger slipped in without resistance. Evie groaned around the dildo, the vibration buzzing in Tiff’s hand. “Oh, she’s so open already. Such a good, used hole.”
Tiff began finger-fucking her, a slow, relentless pistoning. At the same time, she worked the dildo in and out of Evie’s throat in a matching rhythm. Out. Gag. Squelch. The dual penetration was maddening, a full-body violation that wired Evie’s nervous system directly to pure, dumb need. She was a tool for pleasure, a canvas for filth, and it was everything.
“You wanna serve big black cock, Evie?” Tiff grunted, adding a second finger, stretching her wider.
“Mmmhmm!” Evie managed to hum around the dildo, nodding desperately, her smeared makeup giving her the look of a ruined doll.
“You wanna be Darius’s good little sissy?”
“Yes! Yes!” The words were garbled, choked, but unequivocal.
Tiff scissored her fingers, stretching the tender ring of muscle. The burn was bright and perfect. Evie’s body bucked, her own small, trapped hardness throbbing uselessly against the inside of the dress.
Finally, Tiff pulled the dildo out with a final, wet pop. Evie collapsed forward, coughing, drool and pink lip gloss hanging from her chin in a long string. Tiff withdrew her fingers, giving Evie’s gaped, twitching hole a firm, patronizing slap.
“Cut!” Tiff sang, grabbing the phone. She watched the playback, beaming. “Fuck yeah. He’s gonna love it. You’re a natural, Evie.”
Evie lay on the floor, a puddle of synthetic fabric and human wreckage, chest heaving. The shame was gone. In its place was a serene, empty bliss. She wasn’t Ed. Ed was a faint, fading rumor.
She was Evie. And Evie had just applied for her dream job.