Soft Femboy in Making

Over the next week Priya stops pretending this is only about comfort.
She takes you to the big Indian grocery store in a top that shows clear soft cleavage. She keeps her shoulders back. Men look. Some look longer than they should. She leans into you each time and whispers what she sees — which man stared, how long, where his eyes went. Then she makes you admit, in the car, that watching it made you quiet and hard instead of angry.
The same pattern repeats at a Plano shopping center and later at a dim lounge in Deep Ellum. Each time she shows a little more. Each time she forces the same soft honesty out of you afterward.
“You didn’t get possessive,” she says one night, straddling you in the lavender nightie, hands already under the fabric. “You watched men stare at my chest and got jealous that the attention wasn’t on you. That’s not how a husband reacts, Karthik. That’s how a pretty boy who wants to be looked at reacts.”
She starts the breast growth talk the same night — hypnosis, diet, the soft bras she already ordered. She wants small, perky A-cups. The kind that look nice on a soft boy. The kind men who prefer femboys notice immediately.
“I have my reasons,” she tells you when you ask why she wants this so badly. Her smile is private and a little darker than before. “Good ones. You’ll understand more later.”
You don’t push. Part of you is already too busy noticing the new tenderness in your own chest.