Encounter with my neighbor

The shift happened two weeks later.
It began quietly, the way everything in the colony did.
After the long night at the senior officers’ guest house—after the cameras had finally been turned off and the bridal lehenga lay ruined on the floor—the men stayed behind while the wives stepped out to the balcony for air. I was still on the mattress, makeup smeared, breast forms shiny with sweat and cum, the taste of several of them still on my tongue.
The mechanical engineer was the first to speak. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt open, looking at me with an expression I had not seen before.
“You look more like a woman than most of our wives,” he said. His voice was low. “When you’re dressed like that… it’s hard to think of you as anything else.”
The accounts officer nodded slowly. The chemist was silent, but his eyes kept returning to the heavy red blouse still hanging open around my chest.
My neighbour’s husband—the one who had started it all—leaned forward.
“We’ve been talking,” he said. “Among ourselves. After the videos. After nights like this.” He paused. “We want to try it.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows, the bridal jewelry chiming softly. “Try what?”
“Dressing,” the mechanical engineer said. “Like you. Not just watching. Not just fucking you while you’re in a sari. We want to feel it. The clothes. The makeup. The way the wives look at you when you’re like this.”
Silence settled for a moment. Outside, the wives’ soft laughter drifted in from the balcony.
The chemist finally spoke. “My wife already said she would help. She said… she would like to see me that way.”
One by one, the others admitted the same. The senior officers had said it too, in the dark after the cameras stopped. The idea had taken root.
My neighbour’s husband looked at me directly.
“We want you to show us,” he said. “How to do it properly. The breast forms. The makeup. The way you walk in heels. Everything.”
I felt my cock twitch against my thigh, still half-hard from everything that had already happened.
“And the wives?” I asked.
“They already know,” he said. “They’re the ones who suggested we do it together. Next Friday. Here. They want to dress us. And they want the cameras on.”
He reached out and touched the edge of one breast form, thumb brushing the nipple.
“They want to see their husbands the way they see you.”
The balcony door opened. The wives came back in, eyes moving between the men and me, already understanding that something had been decided.
My neighbour smiled that private smile and picked up the ruined red blouse from the floor.
“Next week,” she said softly, “we’re going to need more clothes.”
She looked at the men, then at me.
“And you’re going to teach them how to be pretty.”