Julian stopped replying to him after that.

Still, Orca had a point. Minors probably shouldn't be watching his content.

So he reopened the post and added another line:

[@WorkIsKillingMe]:

Also, if you're under eighteen, unfollow me immediately!!!

The comments updated almost instantly.

[Yes, sir.]

[Understood. Whatever you say.]

[Relax babe I'm already an adult]

Julian clicked into the original post.

ahhhhhh winter break tutoring AGAIN. kill me now.

"……"

Okay. That was worse than expected.

He'd known his audience skewed young. He just hadn't realized how young.

The idea of high schoolers watching his videos after homework made something in his chest tighten weirdly. Suddenly even filming thirst traps felt… questionable.

And honestly, he'd gotten bored of transformation videos anyway.

Time to try something else.

After half a night scrolling reviews, Julian decided on thigh strap reviews.

Still horny content. Just slightly educational horny content.

He ordered several classic styles online.

After the first shipping disaster, he never had this stuff sent to Apex again. Everything went straight to his apartment now. Locker delivery only. No exceptions.

Naturally, one courier ignored the instructions completely.

Julian came home from work and nearly had a heart attack seeing the package sitting outside his door.

At least this time it wasn't women's clothes.

And he'd used a fake name.

Even if his roommates saw it, they probably wouldn't connect it to crossdressing videos.

Probably.

He grabbed the box and slipped into his room fast as possible.

Considered leaving a bad review.

Didn't.

People online had horror stories about couriers retaliating.

From now on, he'd only use the neighborhood pickup point.

—

Another weekend disappeared into overtime.

By Monday, Julian finally got a comp day off and started filming.

The plan had sounded perfect in his head.

Film all morning.

Edit in the afternoon.

Write thesis stuff at night. Maybe game for a little while.

Reality disagreed immediately.

Everything went wrong.

The first leather thigh strap alone almost broke him.

The holes were spaced too wide apart. His legs were too thin. The strap only stayed in place if he tightened it all the way up near the top of his thigh.

Too high for normal skirts.

He ended up changing into low-rise shorts instead.

The fit worked better.

Everything else didn't.

Too tight. Too restrictive. Designed for women, meaning absolutely zero room in the front.

Every step felt like punishment.

One wrong angle and he'd flash the camera.

Not that there was much to flash.

Same as the rest of him, that part of Julian had never exactly developed dramatically.

Technically average.

Nowhere near the kind of size people online obsessed over.

Puberty had made him hate the thing attached to his body.

Something ugly.

Something crude.

A reminder of places he'd spent years trying to escape.

Back in middle school, most boys in the dorms were left-behind kids like him.

Nobody studied.

Most started dating early. The rest hid in the dorms watching pirated porn and talking about girls in their class.

The room always smelled awful.

Sweat. Socks. Tissues on the floor.

Julian hated it there.

At the time he couldn't explain why.

Later, after getting into one of Boston's top high schools, then college, then Apex—

he understood.

Fear.

Fear of ending up stuck there forever.

Some nights he'd lie awake repeating the same thing to himself over and over.

You're not like them.

Don't end up like them.

Keep going.

And technically…

he had.

Top schools. Apex Capital. Manhattan offices. Tailored suits.

Still ended up hiding in a rented bedroom filming fetish content.

Funny.

Julian shoved the thought away, adjusted himself inside the shorts, and finished filming professionally.

One clean demonstration shot after another.

By the time he wrapped, sunlight had already shifted across the floor.

He'd just reached for the waistband to change when someone knocked on the door.

"Hey Julian, you home?"

The voice belonged to the roommate next door.

Julian froze.

Then yanked sweatpants over the shorts so fast he almost tripped.

"What is it?"

"Can you open up? Kinda hard to explain through the door."

No fucking way.

There were thigh straps all over the bed.

Dresses hanging openly inside the closet.

Absolutely not.

Julian faked a yawn.

"Too lazy to get up. Just say it."

Silence for a second.

Then:

"I ran out of cooking oil. Can I borrow some?"

"I don't cook."

Another pause.

"Oh."

Footsteps faded down the hallway.

Julian stayed still another ten seconds before climbing off the bed and checking the lock manually.

Still locked.

Good.

No way the roommate recognized him. Right?

He'd always been careful.

Washed the clothes by hand. Dried everything inside his own room. Never let anything appear in shared spaces.

Sure, some videos showed his eyes occasionally—

but he turned location settings off. New York had millions of people in it. Nobody would randomly suspect him.

Probably really had just been cooking.

Still.

The paranoia stayed.

A mask suddenly didn't feel like enough anymore.

That night Julian ordered sunglasses and a hat too.

If he was hiding his face, he might as well hide all of it.

As for today's video—

no time to wait for the sunglasses delivery.

He grabbed the ribbon from his Christmas gift box and tied it across his eyes instead.

Thin enough to let some light through.

Barely.

Good enough.

He filmed several more reviews like that.

Honestly?

The results disappointed him a little.

The whole point of thigh straps was the soft flesh spilling around them.

Julian barely had any flesh at all.

Just long thin legs and faint pressure marks.

He'd spent days forcing himself to eat more beforehand, hoping it'd help.

Nothing changed.

The final review used thigh chains instead.

Cheap ones.

One gold. One silver.

Unlike normal straps, these attached around the waist.

The setup took forever to figure out.

By the time he finally got the chains positioned correctly and finished the last shot, his phone started ringing.

Samuel.

"……"

Jesus Christ.

"Sir?"

Julian answered instantly, polite voice already in place.

"Did you need something?"

please don't need something please don't need something—

"Get ready," Samuel said. "You're coming with me to a meeting."

Julian closed his eyes.

Of course.

One day off.

One.

"When?"

"Now."

"…What?"

"I'll be downstairs in five minutes."

Samuel paused.

"Come down when you're ready."

The call ended.

Julian stared at the screen in disbelief.

Was he cursed?

Dragged into work by his boss on his only day off?

Personally?

And this suddenly?

Still muttering curses under his breath, he opened his messages.

Samuel had contacted him half an hour ago already.

Julian just hadn't seen any of it while filming.

"……"

Okay fine.

Still Samuel's fault.

Obviously.

He moved fast after that.

Thigh straps into the closet.

Clothes shoved under blankets.

Suit on.

Laptop bag over one shoulder.

Out the door.

The elevator ride down took forever.

Halfway there, a strange ache spread across his thigh.

Julian reached down absently to scratch it—

then went completely still.

"Oh my god."

He'd forgotten to take the thigh chain off.