Executive Employee - Episode 2

To say this day had been a nightmare for Miranda would be an understatement. It was already half past five, and she still hadn’t received ev

Episode 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/132410588

To say this day had been a nightmare for Miranda would be an understatement. It was already half past five, and she still hadn’t received even the slightest hint that all of this was basically just some dumb fucking experiment that was supposed to end after a couple of hours, a day at most. But more than twenty-four hours had passed, and she was still sitting at the pathetic HR desk, in an uncomfortable bra, with stockings pulled tightly over her thighs, feeling the underwear cutting into her skin and reminding her of its presence with every movement, while folders of résumés sat in front of her.

'Enough. That’s it. I’m getting through this damn day — and tonight I’m dragging the truth out of this hellish farce. I don’t give a shit if I break character or not!' — she thought, digging through the intern files, while at the same time feeling the sticky strip of the stocking peel off her thigh again, making her clench her teeth in frustration.

She had tried to reach Craig after that incident at lunch, even waited for him by the elevator, but he apparently didn’t even recognize her — just gave her a polite nod and disappeared behind the doors with “Brandon,” who didn’t even glance her way, like she was nothing. Miranda, stunned, barely held herself back from screaming, but eventually calmed down. She hadn’t fought her way up from nothing to a high-ranking position for nothing. But it had taken enormous effort, and even more strength was needed to return to this “workplace” and keep going.

— Everything alright, Miranda? — Miss Lawrence’s voice snapped her out of it. — You’re not yourself today. Is it because of those silly photos you took yesterday for the brochure? God, how did you even agree to that...

Miranda blinked, realizing she’d frozen with the file in her hands, and her face must’ve been giving away too much. She slowly turned to her boss, forcing a fake smile.

— The photos... — Miranda repeated, but her voice betrayed her, cracking as if some last, critically important spring snapped inside. She stared at Miss Lawrence, then at the file in her hands, at her perfectly painted nails, at the tight curve of her breasts pushing out from the blouse. It all suddenly came crashing down.

— Yeah, those fucking photos, — she snapped, surprising even herself. — It was supposed to end yesterday! What the hell am I... — she stopped, inhaled sharply. — Sorry.

Miss Lawrence raised an eyebrow in surprise, but still answered gently:

— Miranda, maybe you just need a break? Go to the ladies’ room, splash some water on your face. You can leave after five, if you want. It’s been a long day for you.

Miranda nodded, swallowing the irritation at that offhand phrase — “ladies’ room” — and stood up too quickly. The chair squeaked, the stockings pulled tight with a sting, and again that disgusting sensation: her panties riding up between her legs, her boobs bouncing heavily, almost intentionally, as if to remind her what kind of body she was stuck in now.

She walked to the bathroom, eyes on the floor, avoiding her coworkers’ stares, and slammed the stall door behind her. Gripping the sink with both hands. The mirror showed a face that was still unfamiliar, but already known — full lips, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes shadowed.

— Time to end this, — she whispered into the emptiness. — This is all way too weird... Too... — she faltered, glancing down at her own breasts. Heavy, absolutely real, and huge from this angle. She could feel the bra’s fabric stretched to the limit, digging into her shoulders and leaving grooves in her skin. Inside the cups, there was a constant pulsing — a mix of tension and an unfamiliar, barely noticeable itching around her nipples. And just slightly leaning forward made her breasts swell with weight, crushing her lungs and forcing her to straighten up again.

— Fucking hell... — she hissed, straightening up, washing the makeup off her face, trying to scrub off the feeling of absurdity.

Pulling herself together with difficulty, she walked out of the bathroom and, without looking at anyone, returned to her desk. The minutes dragged like hours. The résumé folders blurred in front of her eyes, and her thoughts tangled: 'Where am I? Who am I? Why the fuck is no one explaining anything? Why did they replace me with this... body?!' And every time she tried to focus, the sensations got in the way: bra straps digging in, stockings slipping down, the tight skirt pressing against her hips.

When the clock finally showed 5:02, she stood up abruptly — the chair squeaked again, her boobs bounced, and at that exact moment, everything around seemed to freeze. She was about to bolt for the exit when a familiar voice, tinged with disapproval, rang out:

— Uh... Miranda? Where are you going? — It was Dylan, the HR colleague. Too sugary, too smiley — and for some damn reason, he thought there was “something” between them. He had managed to send her five messages in the company chat that day, full of dumb emojis, and even dropped a link to a “funny video to cheer you up.” She’d ignored everything. He even tried to chat by the water cooler — and got a flat “I’m busy” in return.

— The day’s not over yet, — he added, looking at her from his desk, tilting his head. — We’ve got the vacation meeting in twenty minutes. Aren’t you...

— Fuck off, Dylan! — she snapped, not even turning around. Her voice cracked, full of panic, irritation, and sheer tension.

The office fell into dead silence. A few coworkers looked up. One of the girls at the next desk shook her head. Someone even whispered loud enough to hear: "What a bitch..."

— It’s alright, Miranda, — came Miss Lawrence’s voice, appearing as if out of nowhere, cutting off the brewing drama. — I said she could leave early. She’s had a rough day. Right, Miranda?

She nodded tightly, lips pressed together, and only then dared to turn around. Dylan looked hurt but backed off like he’d just been shoved in the chest. The others, on the contrary, stared at her like she’d broken some unwritten corporate rule. In their eyes, she was that “new chick with an attitude” who kicked up a fuss and thought she was something special.

— Thank you, Miss Lawrence, — Miranda muttered, lowering her gaze.

She walked down the hallway with that strange feeling that someone was watching her. The blouse pulled tight across her boobs, her heels clicked against the floor. She could feel her palms sweating, and a thin trail of sweat running down her spine under the tight shirt.

But she had no intention of going back to that shitty apartment on the outskirts. She was going up. To the one who now called himself Brandon Walker.

The elevator slid smoothly to the 19th floor. Her heart pounded. She stood before the glass doors of her former department, staring at the painfully familiar logo on the wall. Swiped her badge. Access denied.

— What? — she whispered.

Tried again. And again. The same dry beeping tone.

— Excuse me, do you need help? — a voice came from behind.

Miranda turned around and saw a young security guard with a neat haircut and a fresh badge, looking at her with mild wariness. His gaze held something between formal politeness and quiet confusion. No wonder — a young woman in a tight blouse, tits practically spilling out, sweaty, with a panicked look… and a pass that clearly didn’t grant access to this floor.

— I… I used to work here. I mean… — Miranda hesitated for a second, realizing just how ridiculous her words sounded. She looked at the badge again — “Miranda West, Junior HR.” Goddamn all of this. — I just… I need to talk to Mr. Robinson. It’s urgent.

The guard raised an eyebrow.

— Mr. Robinson? He’s in a meeting right now, ma’am. In the conference room.

— Where? — she nearly blurted out, stepping forward.

— U-uh… — the guard stepped half a pace back. — That way, left of the stairwell. But you…

But Miranda had already turned on her heels, her tits bouncing as the blouse pulled tight, almost spilling out of her bra. She could feel how with every sharp movement her nipples pressed hard against the fabric — so sharply, so embarrassingly. ‘Fuck it, I’ve got bigger things to deal with right now,’ — she thought, brushing the feeling aside and quickening her pace. Each step echoed through her hips, the skirt bouncing slightly at her heels, the stockings brushing against each other.

At the conference room door, she slowed. Inside, muffled voices. One she recognized instantly: Craig. And the other...

‘That’s me.’

Or rather, the one who looked like her — like him, like the real Brandon Walker. The voice was calm, confident, same baritone, same tone, even that slight habit of snorting at the end of a sentence — it was all exactly the same. Miranda’s heart raced. She stepped closer to the frosted glass door and saw a silhouette in a perfectly tailored gray suit, hands clasped behind his back, a smirk on his face. And next to him — Craig, laughing, nodding, clapping Brandon on the shoulder.

— No. No. No-no-no... — she whispered, backing away.

She slumped onto a bench by the wall, burying her face in her hands. Her hands were shaking, and inside, everything was screaming: ‘This can’t be real! This… this is impossible!’ But that face stayed in her mind — her face. His face. And how naturally he carried himself, as if he really was him. And not a single person suspected a damn thing.

She stood up suddenly. Heels clicking again. Walked back toward the elevator. The guard saw her again, and this time his look said, “something’s wrong.” She didn’t stop. Just pressed the button and stood there, staring at her reflection in the gleaming metal doors.

In the reflection — a woman. Exhausted, tense. With bright flush on her cheeks, hair partly loose, with boobs she didn’t have two days ago. And it all felt painfully real: sweat under the blouse, tight thigh muscles, bra-strapped shoulders, even how her panties pulled tight between her legs — everything screamed at her, “this is you now.”

The elevator arrived, she stepped in, hit “G,” and started descending.

‘This is some fucked-up shit. I’m going to that goddamn NOVAcore. In person. Let them try to feed me that “staying in character” crap...’

And then a thought hit her so hard it clenched her gut.

What if… this “role” isn’t temporary anymore?