Executive Employee - Episode 1

Brandon had always taken pride in the fact that, after nearly ten years at Johnson & Co., starting as an intern, he had climbed his way

Episode 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/executive-2-134250590

Brandon had always taken pride in the fact that, after nearly ten years at Johnson & Co., starting as an intern, he had climbed his way up to Assistant Marketing Director — and rightfully so. He had weathered three reorganizations, survived a toxic department head, and twice salvaged projects that could have tanked the team's reputation. He was respected. People listened to him. He knew his worth.

But everything changed on one strange day.

The company signed a contract with a biotech startup called NOVAcore, under which some employees volunteered to test a "psychophysical adaptive form" — an experimental technology capable of temporarily (!) altering a person's body to suit corporate needs. Supposedly for full immersion in focus groups, testing women's products, better understanding of the target audience...

"Temporary body transformation with retention of consciousness and skills," the contract stated. Brandon, always at the cutting edge, signed the document without batting an eye. "Turn into a chick for a couple of days? Easy, if it's for promoting the women's lingerie line," he smirked at the time, naturally thinking about his career and how this would help him achieve more.

— That's it, Miranda. Perfect. Lift it a bit more... — the photographer's voice was almost gentle, but there was that professional coldness, the kind he probably used to command models on autopilot.

Brandon — now officially "Miranda West" — stood, obediently lifting the hem of her short skirt as the camera captured frame after frame. White panties with lace trim, tight stockings, a snug blouse that made her massive tits look downright obscene — all of it was meant to convey "elegant confidence of a businesswoman." But inside, everything clenched with wild humiliation.

'What the fuck am I even doing?!' — the thought pierced her as the flash struck her eyes.

— Excellent, Miranda. Just a few more shots. Turn slightly to show the waistline... and push your chest forward, come on. Like it's your usual pose by the water cooler, got it?

'Usual pose by the water cooler?! This whole thing is fucking anything but usual!' — she nodded, hiding the storm raging inside, and arched her back slightly as the photographer instructed. Her breasts pulled downward again with a weight that was impossible to ignore: with each breath, she felt not only the heaviness but also a strange, piercing tingling in her nipples. Her legs in heels trembled despite the confident appearance — standing in them for so long was torture.

— How much longer is this shoot going to take? — holding down the hem of her skirt, understanding the now-familiar gesture from the photographer that meant "show the goods," Miranda asked. He was already lying on the floor to capture the right shot, clicked the shutter, and without taking his eyes off the screen, dryly said:

— Chin up a bit. Good. Now slowly lower the skirt... slowly. Like you're not in the office, but... by the cooler with some very attentive colleagues. You know what I mean?

Miranda clenched her teeth. 'Alright... this turned out to be a bit tougher. Hang in there. Just hang in there. It's temporary.' she kept repeating to herself as she carried out each of the photographer's instructions, each more humiliating than the last, for the next hour. However, all of this was quite stressful for her, and this bureaucratic hassle — why did everything have to be so official? They even set up an email for her: "Miranda.West@johnsonco.com" in the corporate system, and gave her a badge that now modestly read: "Junior HR Specialist" instead of "Assistant Marketing Director."

That evening, the taxi didn’t take Miranda to Brandon’s downtown apartment, but to a small building on the outskirts, with slightly peeling walls. The driver just gave her a puzzled look and said he’d brought her to the address on file. She sighed, once again remembering that stupid clause in the contract — something about playing the role and some other nonsense, for full immersion and whatnot...

The apartment turned out to be... cheap, cramped, and completely foreign. Beige floral wallpaper, worn-out furniture, a wardrobe with exactly three business suits and half a dozen overly feminine outfits — none of it had anything in common with Brandon’s minimalist loft downtown.

On the nightstand lay a note describing her schedule for the next day.

— Are you fucking kidding me?! You mean I actually have to go work tomorrow as some dumb junior HR?! — Miranda flung the note aside like it had burned her fingers, and paced back and forth across the room, breathing heavily. Her boobs bounced with every step, rubbing against the inside of her shirt, and the stockings had already started slipping down her thighs, each step a sticky, unfamiliar reminder of who she was now.

'I’m Brandon Walker. Assistant Marketing Director! Why the hell should I be doing this!?'

Her eyes fell on the phone, and she reached for it, about to dial Craig Robinson, the Marketing Director — but stopped herself at the last second and collapsed onto the bed.

'No way. I’m not giving up! One day... fine!'

The next morning, after struggling to get ready, still feeling exhausted, Miranda stepped outside expecting a car — but there wasn’t one. She stood there for several minutes, and only when it became clear this wasn’t a joke and no car was coming — just like the note had said — she clenched her fists and headed toward the subway.

It was awful. She hadn’t been on the subway in over eight years. Even in a man’s body, she’d hated it. And now... The crowd, the heat, the smell of other bodies — and all of it mixed with the sticky, predatory stares of men that felt like they were burning through her clothes. One guy even stood so close that Miranda felt his shoulder brush against her boob. She instinctively pulled away, but it was too late — his eyes were already darting between her cleavage and her legs.

'Fuck off already... What, never seen a woman in a business suit before?!'

Choking on frustration, she made it to the office and, avoiding eye contact with the security guard, slipped inside.

Her workstation was depressing: a tiny desk, an old monitor, an armless chair, and a stack of résumés she was supposed to sort into folders.

On the neighboring chair, someone had left a mug with a lipstick stain and a copy of "Career and Makeup" magazine. It all felt like some absurd play.

— Miranda, don’t forget you’re needed at the front desk after lunch — said her new boss, Miss Lawrence. — We’ve got a presentation for the new interns. Smile, posture — and yeah, boobs out, shoulders back. You know the drill.

— Of course — Miranda muttered through clenched teeth, adjusting her blouse.

During lunch break, she sat in the corner of the office café, ordered a coffee — and nearly choked when she saw her own body. Or rather, a man in her former form, in a perfectly pressed suit, with unmistakably familiar movements and voice. Brandon Walker — still, at least in appearance.

He was sitting across from Craig Robinson. Craig was laughing, gesturing animatedly, and Brandon (or whoever looked like Brandon) nodded along, sipping coffee. They were clearly discussing work documents.

'What the fuck?!' — Miranda jumped from her seat, nearly spilling her food, and quickly rushed toward them — but they were already getting up and heading for the exit.

— Craig! — she called out.

But he didn’t even turn around. Or didn’t hear. Or — didn’t want to hear.

— Hey! — Miranda added, quieter now, almost a whisper. But they vanished around the corner, leaving her with a racing heart and a dull, crushing realization that she — the real one — had been replaced.

— Miranda! — called Miss Lawrence from across the café. — We’ve got to go. The reports aren’t done, and you’re still sitting here?

Miranda slowly turned, clenched her fists — but smiled. Falsely. Stiffly.

— Yes, Miss Lawrence. On my way.

'I’ll figure this out tonight. I have to. Something’s wrong here... This is definitely not just a marketing campaign.'