Gay/Lesb - LGBT The Change I Didn’t Choose - A Story of Feminization and Obedience

[Thunder85]

Chapter 9: One of Them
The next few days settle into a rhythm – one so smooth I almost don’t trust it at first.
Training goes well. Better than well, actually.
Lisa and I talk more, joke more, share lunch sometimes.
She’s becoming the kind of friend who checks in with a glance and somehow already knows the answer.
We sit together during breaks now – not because it’s planned, but because we naturally drift toward the same table. She steals fries from my plate without asking. She nudges my shoulder when I get too serious.
Sometimes, during those long training afternoons, she leans over and whispers a sarcastic comment about the instructor, and I have to bite my cheek not to laugh out loud.
Sometimes she notices when my mood dips and gives me a quiet, “You good?” that feels more grounding than anything I’ve heard in a while.
And somehow, I find myself opening up around her in ways I didn’t expect.
Telling her small things. Dumb things. Things I don’t say to anyone else.
She listens, smirks, teases – but she never judges.
One day she brings me a coffee without asking.
Another, she saves me a seat before I walk in.
Once, when I looked tired, she shoved half her sandwich at me with a simple, “Eat.”
It isn’t dramatic.
It isn’t complicated.
It just… is.
A quiet, steady friendship that sneaks up on me – warm, surprising, comforting.
And at home… things shift in a different way.
I start cooking without waiting to be asked – sometimes even on nights that aren’t mine.
If I get home early, I head straight to the kitchen, chop vegetables, put the rice on, so Sophie and Mia don’t have to.
Not out of fear.
Just… habit.
Something that feels right.
I follow the laundry schedule down to the minute.
Clean the flat when it needs it.
And I’m always home before ten. Long before ten.
Sophie notices. Of course she does.
The way she says “Good” when she sees dinner already prepared… the way she nods slightly when she checks the laundry basket… those tiny signs of approval feel like small, unexpected rewards.
And every evening when I walk into my room, there’s something waiting on my bed – neatly laid out, like a quiet instruction. One day, it’s a soft pastel dress with a flowing skirt. The next, a fitted top and tailored shorts that fit a little too snugly for my comfort. Another day, a floaty blouse paired with a stylish pair of leggings in a color I’d never dare pick myself.
Always feminine.
Always chosen for me.
And every time I just stand there for a moment, staring at it, feeling that same mix catch in my chest – embarrassment, discomfort… and an unexpected sense of curiosity. I tell myself it’s just politeness, just their rule, just temporary. But slipping into those clothes each evening does something to me. It sparks a change within: part of me wants to pull them off immediately, resisting this newness; another part feels as if I am embracing a new side of myself.
And the weirdest thing?
Wearing them changes how the flat feels.
Sophie and Mia… shift.
Sophie’s still Sophie – strict, controlled, the one who corrects my posture when I slump and reminds me not to drag my feet. But now she looks at me with this small, approving lift of her eyebrows whenever I step into the living room dressed the way they want. Sometimes I even catch the quick, subtle smile she tries to hide before she says, “Good. You’re adapting.” It throws me off every time – being praised for something that twists my stomach and warms it at the same time.
Mia, though… she’s different.
Since I started wearing these clothes, she talks to me more, laughs with me more. There’s a comfort in her now, like she finally sees me as someone she doesn’t have to tiptoe around. It feels like, for the first time since I moved in, they’ve truly started to accept me.
Mia’s comfort with me expands in little jumps, like she forgets to hold herself back.
The first time it happens, I’m rinsing dishes after dinner. I’m in the skirt they left for me that evening, the hem brushing the backs of my legs, making me painfully aware of it. Mia walks up behind me to grab a glass, and instead of the usual polite distance, she nudges me gently with her hip.
“Move, skirt-boy,” she teases, laughing under her breath.
My face goes hot instantly.
Skirt-boy.
She says it like a joke, but hearing it out loud feels like someone pulling a curtain off the truth.
I step aside quickly, mumbling something useless, but she just grins – warm, natural – like this is nothing strange between us.
And then it keeps happening.
When she squeezes past me in the hallway, her fingers catch my waist for balance.
When she sits next to me during our movie nights, she tucks her feet under my thigh without asking, like we’ve always sat that way. Some nights her legs stretched across my lap, her head resting lightly against my shoulder.
None of it flirty.
None of it romantic.
Just… unguarded. Comfortable in a way I don’t know how to respond to, especially dressed the way I am. I don’t know whether I feel trapped, or safe, or something in between. All I know is that the boundary between “housemates” and “whatever this is” has blurred – and she’s the one blurring it without hesitation.
Like she has forgotten I’m a man.
And every time she does it, something inside me flinches – embarrassment, confusion – and something else loosens, like I’m being folded into her world without permission.
***
Days blend into routine again, steady and unremarkable – until Friday evening.
I reach home tired but strangely at ease, the kind of exhaustion that feels earned. My room light is already on. Waiting on the bed, as always now, is the outfit for the evening: a soft lilac top with a small bow near the collar, and a knee-length floral skirt.
I pause at the doorway, staring at it. Even after so many days, there’s still a faint thrum in my chest each time I see those clothes laid out. It’s not shock anymore, just… awareness. The quiet, nervous awareness of stepping into something that still doesn’t quite feel mine.
Still, I dress. The fabric whispers against my skin, familiar and strange all at once.
By the time I reach the kitchen, I’ve settled into the usual rhythm of cooking. The air smells of garlic and herbs when I hear footsteps behind me.
Mia leans on the counter, smiling. “Hey, make one extra portion tonight,” she says casually.
I glance back. “One extra?”
She nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Tom’s joining us for dinner.”
I blink. “Tom?”
“Someone I’m dating,” she says lightly, turning back to check the pot.
The word catches me off guard. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
Mia smiles, a little shrug in her tone. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not yet, anyway. We’ve only just started.”
Something flickers in my chest – a strange mix of surprise, maybe even… jealousy? There’s no reason I should feel jealous. She’s my flatmate. That’s all.
I force a laugh that sounds thinner than I’d like. “That’s nice. I guess.”
She glances at me over her shoulder, amused. “You guess?”
Before I can think of an answer, she adds casually, “Anyway, make one more portion. He’ll be here soon.”
Suddenly I remember what I’m wearing – the skirt, the fitted top – and I nearly drop the spoon. “I can’t meet him like this, Mia.”
“Why not?” she asks, half teasing, half serious.
“Because–” I stammer. “I’m dressed like–” I gesture helplessly, words failing. “Like this.”
Mia tilts her head, amused but not unkind. “Ethan, this is who you are here. At home. You can’t just switch it off because someone’s visiting. That’s not how fitting in works.”
I shake my head, heat rushing to my face. “This isn’t about fitting in. This is– it’s embarrassing.”
She steps closer, resting a light hand on my arm. “Embarrassing for who? You look good, and you know it. You’ve been part of this home long enough to stop hiding. Tom won’t care. He’s chill.”
I open my mouth to protest, but her voice softens before I can. “You said you wanted to belong here, remember? This is part of it. You can’t keep one foot out forever.”
Her words land heavier than I expect.
I turn back to the pan, stirring just to have something to do with my hands. “I don’t think I can face him like this.”
Mia smiles faintly, squeezing my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
She heads off to get ready, leaving me alone with the sizzling pan and my reflection in the dark oven glass. A reflection that, tonight, looks far too calm for what’s coming.
The doorbell rings just as I’m setting the table. My pulse kicks up instantly.
Mia’s voice calls from the hallway, light and cheerful. “That’ll be Tom!”
I stay frozen, half-bent over a stack of plates. My first instinct is to run back to my room, but I know that is not an option.
Moments later, Mia walks in, her hand linked with a tall, broad-shouldered guy with messy blond hair and an easy grin. He stops mid-step when he sees me.
For a second, the grin falters. His eyes flick down, take in the blouse and the skirt. Then back up again. A beat of silence – and then, he laughs. Not cruelly, just… surprised.
“Oh wow,” he says, still smiling. “You weren’t kidding when you said your flatmate had great taste.”
Heat floods my face. “This isn’t– I mean, it’s just–”
Mia jumps in smoothly, her voice calm and amused. “Relax, Tom. This is Ethan. Remember I told you how chill he is?”
Tom nods, still looking at me like he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Yeah, sure. Just didn’t expect the… outfit.”
Mia grins, tossing him a mock glare. “Don’t be rude. He fits in perfectly here.”
Sophie walks in right then, saving me from replying. She gives Tom a polite nod and glances between the three of us. “Good. Everyone’s here. Let’s eat.”
Dinner starts awkwardly. Tom cracks a few harmless jokes, the kind meant to test boundaries – “So, Ethan, is this like… casual-Friday-but-at-home edition?” – and I manage a thin smile, pretending to find it funny.
Mia elbows him under the table. “Stop teasing,” she says lightly, then looks at me. “He’s just surprised. Maybe I should have told him what to expect.”
I look up, unsure how to respond.
She continues, voice softer now, but with that easy confidence of hers. “But honestly, it makes things easier. Living with two women can be… complicated sometimes, right?” She glances at Tom, then back at me. “This way, it doesn’t feel like we’re sharing space with a guy. It feels balanced. Comfortable.”
Tom chuckles. “You mean he’s basically one of the girls now?”
My stomach tightens. Mia laughs – not cruelly, but too easily. “Something like that.”
Sophie doesn’t laugh. She just gives a small, approving nod as she cuts her food. “It’s practical,” she says simply. “He adjusted, and that shows respect. We appreciate it.”
I stare down at my plate, the warmth in my cheeks spreading all the way to my ears. The word respect feels like both a compliment and a collar.
The conversation drifts to other things – work, a new café, some movie they all liked – and eventually, I relax enough to speak, even laugh once or twice. But every so often, I catch Tom’s eyes flicking toward me, curious, maybe still trying to figure out where exactly I fit in this strange equation.
When dinner ends, Mia’s clearing plates with her usual humming, Sophie’s putting leftovers away, and Tom leans back in his chair, grinning. “You know,” he says lightly, “you three make a good household. Different, but it works.”
Different.
The word hangs in my head long after the laughter fades.
When the dishes are finally cleared, Mia claps her hands once. “Movie night,” she declares. “It’s Friday, we’ve all survived the week, and Tom brought snacks.”
Sophie nods without looking up from wiping the counter. “Fine. But nothing loud.”
Tom grins. “Nothing loud, got it.”
I edge toward the hallway. “You guys watch. I should get some sleep.”
Mia turns, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh no you don’t. You cooked, so you’re joining. Come on – one movie. You’ll like it.”
Before I can argue, she’s already tugging at my sleeve, leading me toward the sofa. I glance at the armchair near the corner. “I’ll just sit there.”
“Nonsense,” she says, waving it off. “You’ll get a crick in your neck. Sit with us.”
And somehow, that’s that.
Sophie takes one end of the sofa; I settle beside her, close enough that our thighs almost touch. Mia drops down on my other side, the cushion tilting me toward her until our shoulders press together. Tom claims the far end, remote in hand. I'm sandwiched between them now – Sophie's body heat radiating through her shorts, Mia's bare arm warm against mine.
The lights dim. The movie starts.
I try to focus on the screen, but every small movement sends ripples through the couch. Mia shifts, her thigh sliding against mine. Sophie adjusts her position, her shoulder bumping mine as she reaches for her wine. The contact feels electric, deliberate, even when it's not.
Mia laughs at something on screen, her whole body shaking with it, pressing closer for just a second. Her hair spills over my shoulder, soft and smelling like vanilla and wine. When she turns to whisper something to Tom, her breast brushes my arm – casual, innocent, driving me crazy.
She looks incredible tonight: no makeup, completely relaxed, eyes bright in the TV's glow. Every laugh, every small gasp at the film makes her body move against mine. When Tom pulls her closer, she melts into him, but her leg stays pressed to mine, warm and distracting.
The rest of the movie passes in a haze of shifting light and half-heard dialogue. The room feels too small, the sofa too close, and yet some small, shameful part of me is grateful to be included at all – to be there, part of this small circle.
When the credits roll, Mia smiles at me. “See? Not so bad, was it?”
I manage a smile that’s half true. “No. Not bad.”
But as Tom pulls her close and Sophie switches the lights back on, the glow from the screen lingers in my chest – something warm, heavy, and confusing all at once.
When the credits finally fade, everyone stretches, the spell of the movie breaking.
Tom stands first, ruffling his hair. “That was fun. We should do this more often.”
Mia grins. “We do. You just have to show up on time next time.”
Sophie gathers the empty glasses, her version of goodnight. “I’m turning in. Don’t stay up too late.” She gives me a brief, approving glance – the kind that says you behaved well enough tonight – then disappears into her room.
Mia starts collecting the popcorn bowls while Tom lingers by the doorway. “I’ll help,” I offer quickly, more out of instinct than sense.
She smirks. “See? You really are the most polite one here.” Then, with a teasing glance: “You handled tonight well. I was half-expecting you to run off when Tom arrived.”
I blush, trying to laugh it off. “I thought about it.”
Her smile widens. “But you didn’t. You sat with us. You even laughed at his terrible jokes. I’m proud of you.”
“Proud?” I echo, embarrassed.
She nods, tone softening. “Yeah. You’re fitting in, Ethan. Better than you think.”
Before I can respond, Tom slips an arm around her waist. “You ready?”
She nods, then turns back to me. “Goodnight, Ethan.”
“Night,” I manage, though my voice comes out faint.
They disappear down the hall, Mia’s quiet laughter echoing from her room, a sound that’s both warm and painfully intimate.
I stand there for a long moment in the dim light, the living room still faintly smelling of popcorn and perfume. Then I head to my room.
The reflection in the dark window catches me as I pass – the soft lines of the skirt, the faint shimmer of the top under the low light. I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the fabric, trying to make sense of it all. Tonight I’d sat dressed like this in front of a stranger, shared dinner, watched a movie, even laughed.
I think about the first week here: the awkward dinners, the careful politeness, the way I used to keep my door half-closed even when I wasn’t doing anything. Back then, I’d felt like a guest trying not to disturb anything.
Now… I’m not sure what I am.
Somewhere along the way, my world started adjusting to theirs. Piece by piece. The hair. The perfume. The clothes. The quiet expectations that came dressed as small requests.
It was supposed to be temporary. Just fitting in.
But when does temporary become normal?
The thought lingers as I close my eyes, the faint scent of Mia’s perfume still clinging to my top. It should be comforting. Instead, it leaves me wide awake.
Through the thin wall, I can hear Tom’s and Mia’s voices again – quiet at first, just talking and laughing about the movie.
Then the talking stops.
A moment of silence, then I hear the bed creak. Once, then again, slow and deliberate. Mia lets out a soft sound – almost a sigh – that makes my stomach flip. I know exactly what's happening, but I can't make myself move.
The creaking gets more regular, finding a rhythm. Her voice comes through the wall again, quieter now, breathier. Little sounds that she's trying to keep down but can't quite manage. My face burns with embarrassment, but I stay frozen on the edge of my bed.
It's getting more intense. The bed frame starts hitting the wall with each movement – soft thumps that match the rhythm. Mia's breathing harder now, making these small gasps that cut right through me. I should put on headphones, blast music, anything to block it out. Instead, I sit there like an idiot, listening to every sound.
Her moans get louder. She's not trying to be quiet anymore. Each sound sends heat straight through me, and I hate myself for it. This is my flatmate, and here I am getting turned on listening to her with someone else.
The rhythm picks up. The headboard's really banging now, and Mia's voice rises with it. She lets out this long, breathy moan that makes my hands clench into fists on my knees. My whole body feels tight, aroused despite how wrong this is.
It goes on and on. Every gasp, every moan, every creak of the bed feels amplified in the quiet apartment. I can hear Tom too now – low grunts and heavy breathing that mix with her higher sounds. The wall between us might as well not exist.
Mia gets louder, more desperate. Her voice breaks on sharp gasps that sound almost like sobs. My heart pounds as I imagine what she looks like right now – hair spread across the pillow, skin flushed pink, lips parted as she breathes hard, breasts rising and falling with every breath, back arched as Tom moves over her.
Then she cries out, loud and clear, her voice hitting a peak that echoes through both rooms. The sound of pure pleasure that makes my whole body tense with want.
Everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and whispered words I can't make out.
I sit there in the sudden silence, aroused and miserable and hating every second of it. The wall between us feels paper-thin. All I can think about is her face during those final moments, how she sounded, how she looked on the couch earlier with her dress riding up.
The quiet stretches on, broken only by soft murmurs and the occasional shift of the mattress. I finally lie down, and try to pretend I didn't just spend several minutes listening to my flatmate have the kind of sex I can only dream about.
***
I wake up early, but I don't get out of bed right away. Instead, I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying everything from last night. The way Mia looked in that white dress, how it clung to her body. The sounds through the wall. I can't shake the image of her flushed and breathless, completely lost in pleasure.
My body responds to the memory before I can stop it. I close my eyes and let myself picture her again – the way she laughed on the couch, how her thigh pressed against mine, the little sounds she made later with Tom.
Finally, I force myself up. When I step out of my room, Mia's already in the kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt that barely covers her thighs. Her hair's messy, face fresh without makeup. She looks up and smiles.
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"Where's Tom?" I ask, glancing around.
"He left early, had some work." She grins and takes a sip of coffee. "Hope we weren't too loud last night. These walls are pretty thin."
My face burns. She knows. Of course she knows.
"I... I had headphones on," I lie.
Mia laughs, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sure you did. That's why you look like you didn't sleep much."
She laughs again, softer this time. "Relax, Ethan. Honestly, I feel more comfortable with you around now – you’re one of us girls."
The words hit like a compliment wrapped in confusion. One of the girls. She says it lightly, fondly even, but all I can think about is last night – the sounds through the wall, the reminder of everything I’m not.
Before I can find a response, she adds briskly, “I need to buy some clothes. Be ready by four. We’ll leave together.”
No question, no room for argument – just a decision handed down.
I nod automatically, still reeling from her words. A part of me wants to protest, to say I’m not one of them. But another part – the one that still feels the faint warmth of her approval – stays silent.
At four, she knocks lightly, not waiting for my answer. “Let’s go.”
I inhale once, steadying myself, and follow.
Five minutes later, we are on the tram, her shoulder pressing against mine as she taps something on her phone. Every time the tram jolts, she steadies herself by grabbing my forearm. Casual. Thoughtless. Like it was just… normal.
When we reach the store, she heads straight to the women’s section, grabbing clothes off racks with quick, confident hands.
“Stay,” she says, pointing at a spot near the fitting rooms as if I’m her personal assistant. “I need opinions.”
Opinions.
From me.
Before I can answer, she vanishes behind the curtain.
A minute later, the curtain whisks open and she steps out in a short black skirt and a cropped beige top. The outfit clings to her curves, drawing attention to her waist and the smooth line of her back.
She twirls once. “Well? Too much?”
I clear my throat. “Uh… it’s nice.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Nice? Ethan, that’s the word people use for soup.”
She disappears again.
A minute later she walks out in a red dress so tight it looks painted on – plunging just enough at the neck to show the curve of her breasts, hem flirting with mid-thigh so every step flashes skin. My pulse jumps.
“Oh,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her smile spreads slowly. “Oh?”
She steps closer, studying my face with amused precision. “You mean it looks good?”
I nod too fast. “It looks… fine. Good. Yeah.”
She laughs. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She pokes my cheek. “Cute.”
My face burns hotter.
Then she disappears into the fitting room again.
Third outfit.
This one hits harder than the rest: a soft white sundress with thin straps that leaves her shoulders bare, the front dips until the edge of each breast shows. When she moves, the hem rides up just enough to show she’s wearing nothing underneath.
“What about this?”
I suddenly don’t know where to keep my eyes.
“It’s–” I swallow. “It’s very summery.”
“Summery,” she repeats, deadpan. “In other words, you like it.”
She loops her arm through mine without thinking, leaning against me as she studies herself in the mirror.
“Be honest,” she says, nudging me lightly. “Would you notice a girl wearing this?”
“Yes,” I admit before my brain could save me.
She shoots me a triumphant smile. “Exactly.”
Her fingers squeeze my arm, light but familiar. Too familiar.
And it hits me – how comfortable she is beside me, how she treats me like someone safe, someone easy to be around, someone she doesn’t need to hold back from at all. The way she would be with her girlfriends – open, relaxed, unguarded.
Warmth curls in my stomach. And something else – confusion.
I’m attracted to her. Of course I am. Anyone with eyes would be. Mia is… impossibly beautiful. But I never imagined anything more between us; it wasn’t even a thought in my head. Yet the more time we spend together, the more those lines blur. I catch myself noticing the sway of her walk, the way she leans into me without hesitation, the way her laugh pulls something tight in my chest.
And she’s gotten more comfortable with me, yes – but not in the way I ever expected. Not in a way that leads anywhere. Just in a way that folds me into her world like another girl in the flat.
I’ve heard of men getting friendzoned… but whatever’s happening to me is worse, stranger, almost comical.
I’m being girlfriendzoned.
Her voice snaps me out of it.
“Okay,” she declares, turning back toward the changing room, “I’m buying this one. And maybe the black skirt. You helped. Good job.”
She pats my chest like rewarding a pet.
As she disappears behind the curtain again, I stand there, pulse uneven, trying to understand why her closeness unsettles me… and why a tiny, shameful part of me doesn’t want her to step away.
When she loops her arm through mine on the way home, carrying her shopping bags, it feels almost natural.
Almost.