Halloween 1: Lady Maker: A TG Halloween Tale (Patreon)

“Let’s get all the gear inside,” Branigan Resolute said as soon as the vans came to a stop. “I want to be shooting in 60 minutes.”

The crew rolled their eyes. Always a big rush with this guy, and then complaints about how the work looked terrible. But they started to grab cameras and sound equipment from the back of the vans, each of which had been pained with the words “Branigan Haunts” across the image of Branigan punching a specter.

Branigan jumped out of the van as well, immediately joined by his assistant, Mary Harbor, who handed him his coffee mug. Branigan looked over the mansion in front of him. “Goddamn,” he said. “Can you fucking believe this place?”

“The location does show promise,” Mary responded.

“Promise?” Branigan said. “It looks like a set from a horror movie.” Indeed, it did. Built of dark, brown stone, now stained black from years of pollution, the Denae Mansion bristled with towers and widows’ walks, gables, and crooked chimneys. Gnarled vines crawled up the walls, and threatened to engulf the thick, lead glass windows. On each corner of the roof, a statue of a naked nymph stood, raising her arms to the sky.

The interior was no less glorious. The house had been occupied by a series of shut ins ever since the founding Denae family had abandoned it back in 1867. One owner after another had bought the property, which time and again had sold for pennies on the dollar, and time and again that new owner had ended up living in isolation from the world, a hermit, who’d kept the house unchanged, so that it was still furnished with the original furnishings from 1824, had the same wall paper, the same marble kitchen counters, the same wood-fired iron stove.

As Branigan stepped onto the front porch, the floorboards creaked ominously. He gave Mary a wink. “Spooky.”

“Agreed.”

He then pushed open the front door, rusty hinges rewarded him with a horror movie groan. Branigan laughed. “This is amazing. I mean, we won’t even need any sound effects.”

The crew had begun to set up in the library. In addition to the floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with dusty, old hardcover books, there was a fireplace where an assistant was busily getting a fire started, and a row of windows looking out on the wild, untamed rose garden. They had all decided it would make the perfect setting for the opening monologue.

Branigan, meanwhile, went into the parlor, where his makeup artist waited. Branigan sat down. “This place is spooky,” Gina, his makeup girl, said.

“It gives me the creeps,” Mary agreed.

“Girls,” Branigan said while Gina did his mascara. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

“I’m not worried,” Gina said. “Just kind of unnerved.”

“Yeah, okay,” Branigan said. “Just know there’s a man here to take care of you.”

Gina and Mary exchanged an annoyed glance. Gina gabbed a horsehair brush. “Let’s give your cheeks a nice pink blush. There.”

“I’ve studied all the martial arts of the world and created my own fighting system,” Branigan went on. “I am more than capable of dealing with any threats, ladies.”

“I feel safer already,” Gina said, rolling her eyes. “Now pucker up so I can do your lipstick.”

Once he was done with makeup, Branigan checked out his clothes. He always looked rugged and manly for the show. Part of his whole thing was that he bullied the “ghosts,” shouted, threatened, and drove them from the houses with the sheer force of his will. In that vein, he wore a thermal shirt, jeans, boots. He had carefully groomed stubble on his face. His arms were thick and veined and etched with muscle, and he had a body builder’s hard, bulging chest. He looked over all that and, yeah. He liked what he saw.

He went back to the library. Cameras and cables crowded the space. The sun had gone down, and the gas lamps were all flicking, casting the room in a warm, fiery glow. The TV lighting had been minimized so they could capture the ambience. A fire blazed in the old stone fireplace. The crew was still setting up. He looked at his phone. “You have two minutes to get this shit show straightened out!” He barked at the director, Jenni Wilson.

“We’re working as fast…”

“DO IT!” Branigan screamed in her face.

Jenni turned and started barking at her crew, the shit rolling downhill.

Branigan sighed, turning to Mary. “Unbelievable. I have to stay on everyone. All day. Not one person can be trusted to just do their fucking job.”

“It puts you under so much pressure,” Mary recited robotically, having heard Branigan carp about this many times.

“Exactly. You get me. You see it. I mean, I am paying these people. Why the hell can’t they just earn their pay?”

‘Puzzling.”

“Yeah. Puzzling.”

Mary, in fact, did not agree with Branigan’s management style at all. She taken the job because she needed money and hoped the credit would lead to something better. That had been two years ago, and so far, she hadn’t found any doors opening. Branigan had told her that he liked to hire women. Publicly, he made a big deal about how he supported female directors, sound engineers. His whole crew was female. Privately, he’d admitted to Mary that he hired women because he believed they were easier to intimidate.

“That’s time,” Branigan said, walking onto what was now the set. “Let’s do this. I don’t care if you think you are ready or not.”

“Just another—“ Jenni started to say.

“Time is money. Let’s roll, honey.”

Jenni bit her tongue. She hated being called honey. “Quiet on the set,” she said as the last of the lighting was put into place. “And— go.”

“Today we join you from one of the most haunted places in the world, the Denae Manse. Let me read to you from the journal of its original builder, Broderick Denae.” The tech lights dimmed so now Branigan was lit only by the gas light and flames from the fireplace. “I do not know how much longer I have. I am changing. Changing into something I fear is worse than death. I called on the old ones, the goddess Hekate, and I…

At the uttering of the name, Hecate, the lights flickered. A scream filled the air, and all went dark. Branigan felt like there was something grabbing him, reshaping him as if his body were made of clay. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t. His mouth would make no sounds.

The lights flickered back on. The cameras, too. Branigan wobbled, woozily. “What just happened?” He asked. “Shit. Did you get that?”

Everyone, however, was staring at him with shocked expressions.

“What?”

Jenni pointed at his chest. “You’re… um.. you have…”

Branigan then became aware of a new weight on his chest. Looking down, he saw he now had breasts straining against his thermal shirt. “Oh, shit.” He put his arm across his chest. ‘Cut. Cut,” he said, before turning and hurrying out of the room, totally unnerved by the jiggling sensation of his chest. Mary hurried after him.

Jenni and the other crew women stared, everyone trying to process what they’d just seen. Jenni shook her head, thinking what she thought had happened could not have happened. “Did you get any of that?” She asked Callie, the camera operator.

“I don’t know,” Callie said.

It was a small crew by TV standard. Jenni and Callie, a second camera operator, Smitty, a sound tech who help the boom mic, Erin, and the lightning designer, Talia. Oh, yeah. And Marcie, the intern right out of film school. They all crowded around the monitor. The shoot was all digital, so Jenni rolled it back to just before the lights went out.

There was Branigan, aglow in the soft gas light. “That shot does look good,” Jenni said. Callie nodded. Brannigan was reciting his lines: “‘I called on the old ones, the goddess Hekate, and I

The scream, like an unearthly howl, the flicker, the light went out, but then— Jenni froze the image. “What the hell is that?”

The women all crowded close to the screen. It looked like a woman’s face had appeared in the darkness behind Branigan. She was pale— too pale— with dark eyes and blood red lips. The image was semi-transparent. They could see the mantle through the pale skin, but distinct. “I don’t know,” Callie said. “I didn’t put it there.”

“It does almost look fake,” Jenni said. She slowly advanced the recording. A pair of hands appeared on Branigan’s chest, squeezing, lifting, molding what looked like two swelling breasts— women’s breasts.

Then all the lights coming back on. The image fuzzing as the camera adjusted to the sudden light, and then Branigan standing there, those big, proud breasts stretching out the front of his shirt, asking, “What just happened?” Jenni froze the image. “Those— what are they? D cups?”

“Yeah. I kind of didn’t believe this was even real,” Callie said. “Could this be some prank of his?”

Jenni shook her head. ‘Not his style. Give himself boobs as a joke? I don’t think so. I think they might be, and I can’t believe I am saying this, real.”

“Real?” Smitty said. “If they are real, though? Is this place really haunted?”

The women all looked around, feeling suddenly nervous, unsure. They rewound the recording to watch it again, still not believing their eyes.

*****

Branigan was standing in front of a bathroom mirror, his shirt lifted as he stared at his big, pink nipples, the rounded white breasts that now bobbled on his chest. They were huge, and they felt even bigger than they looked. “Boss?” Mary called from outside the door.

Branigan pulled his thermal shirt down, irked by how tight it felt, stretching across his chest. “Yeah?”

“I’m not sure what I just saw. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Branigan lied. He had a sudden burst of hope. Maybe no one would believe what they’d just seen. The thought of all these women seeing him with breasts— especially these puppies— sickened him. They would lose all respect for him. He couldn’t allow that. Mary’s words gave him some hope, and a plan: Hide and deny. “Bring me my jacket,” he said.

“Jacket. Why??”

“Mary. Do what I asked. No questions.”

Mary hurried off. Branigan stared in the mirror, shaking his head in horror. It was impossible, and he was humiliated and disgusted. This couldn’t be real, he decided. A guy didn’t just pop out a pair of tits. He pulled off his shirt, feeling his breasts sway and bounce. He looked in the mirror trying to spot a seam, something to suggest they were fake breasts, that someone had somehow attached them to his chest, the whole thing being some elaborate joke. But, he found— nothing. He covered his nipples with his palms and squeezed— and he felt his hands on his nipples, felt his breasts being squeezed. “Oh, God,” he said, pulling his hands away. “Fuck.”

Every time he moved, his breasts swayed and jiggled. The sensation was unnerving. Unmanning. With no better ideas, he pulled his thermal shirt back on, then wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to keep it from moving. Where the hell was Mary?

There was a gentle knock on the door. “I have your jacket.”

“Okay. I’m going to open the door. Just a crack. Pass it in. Then, I want you to clear the hall between here and that first bedroom.”

Branigan cracked open the door and Mary pushed his jacket through. Branigan immediately yanked it shut.

“Boss, the crew is kinda freaking out after what happened.”

“Nothing happened.” Branigan slipped on his sports coat and tried to pull it shut, but his tits were too big. They wouldn’t be contained.

“They want to scrub the shoot. Get out of here.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Um, okay, let me just get myself sorted out. I told you. I’ll protect you ladies if there is trouble. Tell them— tell them to just shoot some of the rooms and things while I take care of something. We’ll lose a fortune if we just scrub.” Could he protect anyone, though? He looked down at his chest. He honestly didn’t know.

“Okay.”

“Tell me when the hall is clear.”

As soon as Mary indicated the hall was clear, Branigan pulled his coat as tightly closed as he could, then hunched over in an effort to hide his chest, rushing from the bathroom down the hall to the bedroom and slamming the door closed as soon as he entered. He heard footsteps on the second floor, right above him. Muffled voices. He pulled his jacket off and went to the old, ornate full-length mirror in the corner, once more shaking his head and staring in disbelief at his melons. “This will destroy me if it gets out,” he mumbled. “I can’t be seen like this.” He decided he needed to bind them— use something to tie them down. Looking at the bed, he pulled down the covers, started to pull off the sheet, thinking to tear it and use a scrap as binding.

Meanwhile, driven by curiosity, Jenni and Callie had snuck around the outside of the house. They came to the window outside the room where Branigan was hiding just in time to see him pull off his shirt, revealing his magnificent, gravity defying breasts. They looked at each, struggling to believe it was real, even as Branigan yanked the top sheet off the bed.

Just then, the gas lamps in the room extinguished, and it filled with an eerie green light. The same image of a pale woman appeared, this time seeming to rise out of a large, oak armoire, and she had something in her hand. There was the sound of a woman’s scream, followed by Branigan shouting in fright, backing away.

Jenni and Callie stood frozen, the camera locked on the action. Neither had ever seen anything truly paranormal in their lives, and the sight of this-- ghost? Apparition? Demon? Paralyzed them with fear.

They watched as it tried to wrap whatever it was holding around Branigan. He struggled, threw fists, but the specter persisted until finally they saw that it had fitted a corset around Branigan’s body…

The door to the room rattled, there was pounding. “Branigan!” Mary yelled.

“What the hell?” Branigan said looking down, not even sure what this strange garment that had been wrapped around his body was. Then the stays on the back of the corset were yanked—  violently and tightly— and he gasped as he felt his waist being crushed— “Stop! No! You’re…” The stays yanked even tighter, and it was as if he’d been punched in the gut, all the air knocked out of him. Branigan stumbled.

Jenni and Callie watched as invisible hands tied the stays. Branigan spun and faced the window, his eyes looking lost, unfocused. The corset had molded him into an hourglass shape, with a slender waist and rounded hips, the top lifting his breasts, squeezing them together, giving him the deepest, softest cleavage they’d ever seen…

Now the doors to the armoire burst open as a gust of wind began to swirl around the room… petticoats and stockings and ribbons and slips and a wig and shoes and a dress all floated out of the armoire and began to swirl around Branigan like a pack of bats.

“No…” Branigan said, batting weakly at the feminine finery, but the wind that had filled the room began to twirl him, making him spin and spin… and with each turn Jenni and Callie saw another layer of women’s clothes fit itself upon his body… until finally the wind slowed, and Branigan spun in an old-fashioned dress, the skirts flying out as he stumbled weakly, now with long brown hair tied back with a pink ribbon… His face smooth, lips glistening with pink lipstick…

The door burst open and Mary rushed into the room, just managing to catch Branigan as he put the back of his hand to his forehead and fainted into her arms.

Callie and Jenni, unfrozen from their fear, looked at each other, then back inside at what looked like a woman being laid on the bed my Mary. Just then, there was a crack of thunder and merciless bolts of lightning cracked the sky. A hard, cruel rain began to fall.

Chapter Two

Branigan heard voices. Distant, muffled voices, as if they were coming to him from a seashell. “Is he a— a guy still?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Should we, um, check?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I wouldn’t even believe she was Branigan if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“I am freaking out. This is insane.”

Branigan’s eyes fluttered open. He saw the crew crowded around him. “Where am I?” He asked, his hand immediately going to his throat as he heard a soft, lilting voice come from his lips. Looking at his hand, he saw he was wearing a white, lace glove. “What the fuck?” Trying to take a deep breath, his chest heaved as the corset prevented him from breathing any deeper than his chest, and he looked down to see his smooth, creamy breasts framed in the plunging lace collar of a— “dress? Why am I wearing a dress?”

So distracted was he by the humiliating changes to his body and the female attire he found himself wearing, it didn’t even register as he brushed his long bangs out of his eyes, trying to get up from the bed, finding he could barely move his upper body for the constraining power of his corset. He became aware that the women crowded around him, and they were all staring at him in his dress, his curves… “Ahhhh!”

“Calm down,” Mary said. “Let me help.” She started to take his arm, but he batted it away, half rolling off the bed and immediately stumbling as he tried to find his footing in his new, high-heeled shoes, almost falling over only to be once more caught by Mary, who steadied him. A new feeling of helplessness scared and enraged him, and he looked up at Mary meaning to scream at her, but as he realized he was looking up at her his world seemed to spin, and he glanced at the mirror, then looked back and stared at what looked like a stunning young woman in an off pink dress, with a banging ass figure…

His mouth dropped open, and he batted his long, curly lashes. “That’s not me,” he said, horrified as her mouth moved. He stopped carefully toward the mirror, wobbling on his heels, waving, and watched as she wobbled and waved. “Oh, fuck no! NO!” He started hyperventilating, his chest heaving, and he screamed! Mary got there just in time to catch him as he fainted one more.

“You guys, clear the room. I’ll try to calm her— him? Down when she wakes up again.”

The crew started heading toward the door. Jenni glanced at Callie, who gave her a thumbs up. She’d captured the whole thing.

The crew had decided to camp down in the parlor for the night, everyone staying together. They were all freaked out by what had happened, the presence of something supernatural right here in the house. But the storm had knocked out the only bridge to Denae Manor, and they’d reluctantly decided to stay the night. Now, Jenni gathered them all into a tight little circle. “Guys,” she said. “I want to run something by you all.”

They all nodded.

“Callie has footage of all this,” she said. “The first change. The dress. The scene just now.”

“I got some good sound,” Erin said.

“What? You did?” Jenni asked.

“We are upstairs right over the room. When I heard all the commotion, I put the mic to the floor.”

“You are amazing!” Jenni said.

“Hey. I do the job.”

“Here’s the thing,” Jenni said. “I’m pretty sure Branigan Haunts is over as a show. I mean— look at him. So, we have all this footage.”

“You want to sell it to someone else?” Erin said, catching on.

“I think we could get some good money for this.”

Marcie, the intern, raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“Is that, like, illegal or something? I mean. I signed a contract.”

“Oh,” Jenni said. “You are adorable, and you have a lot to learn.”

“So, it is legal?” Marcie said, relieved.

“Not at all,” Jenni said. “Branigan Productions own all this footage. But, in his current state? I think I could get him to sign it over.”

“And then we sell one of the biggest news stories of the decade,” Callie said.

“And we use the money, and here’s the part I am hoping you all get super excited about, to start our own production company.”

“Wow. Yeah. Cool,” the women all agreed.

Marcie still looked a little unsure. “Marcie?” Jenni said. “I want you on board with this.”

“I’m just— well— I mean, aren’t we taking advantage of her? Him? Because, you know, he’s been feminized?”

“Yes,” Jenni said. “Yes, we are. And how does being promoted from intern to assistant director sound to you?”

Marcie’s eye lit up. “Assistant director?”

“And don’t worry. I have plans to take care of Branigan as well.”

“Well, then, I love this!”

They all cheered quietly. “Okay, then,” Jenni said. “Here’s what I want you all to do.”

Branigan’s eyes once more fluttered open. He once more looked down to see his soft, milk white cleavage. Mary was at his bedside, holding his hand. “Just try and stay calm,” she said in a soothing voice. “You fainted again.”

The news that he’d fainted just like some frail female from an outdated romance novel made Branigan feel sick— just as sick as the thought that his body had been changed, his voice. None of it seemed possible, despite what he’d seen in the mirror. ‘Is this real?” He asked in his pretty voice.

“It’s real,” Mary said. “I know it doesn’t seem possible, but it’s real.”

Branigan squeezed his legs together. He couldn’t feel his junk. The thought that it was gone, that he was a woman, horrified him. He almost reached down to check, but with Mary watching it just seemed wrong. “Am I? Did the changes?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “You are— you have a woman’s body now. A complete woman’s body.”

The reality hit Branigan like a hammer, and he was disgusted to find himself weeping, covering his face in shame as the sobs shook his body. Mary held his hand, and murmured, “there, there. There, there.” She let him cry himself out, and when the tears started to subside, she handed him a lace hanky.

Branigan daubed at the corners of his eyes, not conscious of how sweetly feminine he looked. Then, he swallowed and looked at Mary. “Kill me,” he said. “I can’t live like this.”

“I thought you were a man?” Mary said.

Branigan slit his pretty eyes. “I am. I was. Look at me.”

“A man doesn’t run from his problems. A man doesn’t abandon his crew, people who are all counting on him. A man is tough, and he faces whatever life throws at him.”

All of the things Mary had said were words Branigan, himself, had spoken. They were part of his code. “But— how? Now that I’m like this? No one will believe this is me— and I don’t want anyone to ever see me like this. I’m dead, Mary. I’m dead. I don’t exist!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Mary said. “You are very much alive. I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t know,” Branigan said.

“I’ll get you through this,” Mary said. “I have a plan, and Jenni and all the girls are rallying around you. They want to help you— adjust. All we need from you is trust.”

The words touched Branigan. The thought that the whole team cared, that they were pulling for him? His girl’s heart fluttered, and he felt a rush of new emotions unlike any he’d ever felt before. “Okay,” he said, crying again, but this time tears of relief, tears of hope. “I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.” Mary took his hand and pulled him from the bed. “Now, come with me.”

Branigan followed. Mary led him to the parlor, where Jenni was Callie stood close together, talking. As Mary entered, pulling a bashful Branigan behind, they stopped talking and looked at him, still struggling to believe it was HIM.

No one knew what to say. It was all very surreal, but Jenni’s years directing took over as she focused on the task at hand, tuning out the side issue that their host was now a very pretty young woman. “Take her — Branigan— to the van. Drive off the property. We don’t think this spirit can leave the confines of the estate.”

“Why not?” Mary said, taking the electronic key fob from Jenni.

“I’ll explain later. No one else has been affected, but we’re just finishing shooting, grabbing some materials, and then we are all getting out of here.”

Branigan wanted to say something. He was used to being in charge. But whether it was part of the magic that had changed him, or merely the fact that finding himself in a corset and a dress, with a young woman’s soft voice, he found he couldn’t speak out the way he used to. Instead, he meekly raised his hand, waiting for permission to speak.

“Go,” Jenni said, not even noticing his dainty hand slightly raised at his side. “Before something else happens.”

“Pardon?” Branigan said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Sweetie, this is not the time,” Jenni said, pushing him toward the door. “We just need to get you to safety.”

“Um. okay,” Branigan said as Mary dragged him toward the front door, where they found Marcie waiting with a big umbrella. Branigan froze at the door, shaking his head side to side. “No. I can’t,” he said. “I should— I’m just going to stay here. I can’t face the world like this.”

“That’s what happened to all the men before you,” Marcie said.

“What? I thought the house had been occupied by a succession if old maids,” Branigan said.

“The house was bought by a series of men. Each one moved here, only to go missing after bequeathing the house to a mysterious woman who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. The journals we found show those men were the women. They were all changed, and they spent the rest of their lives hiding here, living in seclusion, too ashamed to show their faces.”

“I understand that,” Branigan said. “I do. I— I feel like the spirit is done with me. I’ll do as the others did before me. I will hide here and live out my shameful years—"

Slap!

Branigan put his hand to his cheek in shock. Mary had just slapped him across the face. “Buck up! We need you! Let’s go.” With that, she grabbed his hand and dragged him through the door, the three of them huddling under the umbrella as they dashed through the rain and leapt into the van. Marcie ran back to the house, while Mary put the van in gear and pulled out, headlights sweeping across the moldering stone walls as they dashed into the night.

Chapter Three

Mary and Jenni stood at the front of the conference table. The crew was there, drinking coffee, picking at the danishes and donuts that crowded trays at the middle of the table. On the screen, the words Jenniry Productions with their symbol: Diana slaying a stag. Branigan sat at the other end of the table. He looked gorgeous in a red dress, legs crossed, hands in his lap. His face was perfectly made up, and he had a necklace that nestled right in the midst of his abundant cleavage. The women were all jealous of his radiant skin!

“Great news, everyone. Netflix loved the Lady Maker footage so much, they not only bought the movie, but a 13 episode series featuring our own lovely Miss Resolute.”

Everyone clapped. Branigan plastered a pretty smile on his face, as he’d been taught to do. Mary had arranged for him to take lessons in feminine deportment, and he was doing quite well.

After Mary and Branigan had fled the manor, the crew had shot the whole house, and then Branigan had done narration in front of a green screen, later merged into the footage so it seemed like he had stayed in the house after his transformation and finished the show. Of course, it was the footage of him being changed that had really set the world on fire. Rumors had spread, many claiming it was all fake, that there was no way this girl was the world famous ghost hunter Branigan Resolute. His family was trying to have him declared dead. Despite his desperate desire to keep a low profile, he’d been forced to go public in a big way and try to prove that he was a woman.

Branigan didn’t understand how it had happened— not just the body change, but how he’d found himself losing control of it all, Jenni and Mary stepping over him as he was reduced to a pretty face that spent most meetings just smiling and nodding, agreeing to whatever they told him. The spell had lingering effects. He’d found it impossible to go anywhere unless he was wearing a corset and a dress, and his hair and makeup had to be perfect at all times, or he would suffer the worst anxiety attacks. He was pretty sure the women loved seeing him like this. But what choice did he have? A series of mystics, priests, witches and shamans had all proven incapable of undoing the spell.

While Jenni laid out the details of their next shoot— focusing on the technical issues, Mary came back to Branigan. “Let’s have a quick chat about your look,” she said. Branigan offered his arm. He found it hard to stand on his own squeezed into his infernal, 19th century corsets. Mary smiled as she helped the dainty little man to his feet. “Those shoes are adorable,” she said, seeing his white pump.

“Thanks,” Branigan sang, smiling brightly as he’d been trained to do. Mary led him to her office. Helped him sit. “So, the execs have some ideas for your look and character, and I have to tell you I am so excited.”

“Look?” Branigan said, not liking the sound of it.

“The thing is,” Mary said. “Sex sells.”

Epilogue

“And go!” Jenni said.

Branigan, wearing a corset dress that showed off his round little shoulder and pretty arms, that pushed his abundant breasts up and made them seem even bigger, tossed his now blonde hair and put a hand on his hip. “This is, like, so scary!” He said, standing in front of a dilapidated building in downtown Boston. “Omigod! I can’t even tell you. I can feel the spiritual energy!” He turned and walked toward the building, letting his hips sway seductively. Then, he looked back over his shoulder, smiled and said, “Come on. Let’s get spooky!”

“Got it. Moving on!” Jenni said.

As the crew started to move the gear and set up the next shot, Jenni walked past Branigan, touching his gently on the arm. “Great job, babe. So sexy.”

Branigan let the smile drop from his face. Mary came, putting a hand on the small of his back and guiding him toward hair and makeup. “Let’s get you touched up.”

“This is ridiculous!” Branigan squeaked in feminine rage. “I feel like a bimbo.”

Mary hid her smile. “Not at all. You come across as a strong, powerful woman.”

“Really?” Branigan said. He’d become quite naive.

“Absolutely,” Mary said. “You’re scoring so high in all our demographics. Men want you, and woman want to be you!”

Marcie hurried into the scene carrying a black kitten. “We need a quick shot of Brandi and her new kitten, Mischief, for social media.” Marcie handed the kitten to Branigan, who had no choice but to cradle it in his arms.

“Brandi?” He said, as an assistant came up and started shooting pictures. “Smile!” The assistant commanded. “Now turn! Profile! Look away. Now look at the camera with ‘fuck me’ eyes. Good. Good.”

Branigan followed all the instructions effortlessly. They’d bullied him into taking modeling classes. He knew just what to do.

“Our research showed the audience preferred for you to have a more feminine name,” Mary said absently while she checked her texts.

“Shouldn’t I be able to pick my own name?” Branigan said.

“Sure, sure. We’ll talk about it later, sweetie.” Mary guided Brandi to the makeup tent. “Get Brandi ready for an indoor shoot,” Mary said. “Here’s the lighting palette.”

“On it,” the make-up artist said.

“Mary!” Brandi called as he dutifully sat, legs crossed, hands in lap. “I want to talk now!”

“Bye, doll,” Mary said, blowing him a kiss. “You look gorgeous.”

Brandi stared at her as she left, slitting his eyes in girlish rage. “No one listens to me,” he said.

“Girl! That’s because everyone is too busy looking at your fine ass self,” the make-up artists said, as she cleaned off the outdoor makeup on Brandi’s face.

Brandi sighed. It was her life now. She felt small and powerless all the time. People told her what to wear, what color to dye her hair, what to say, how to walk, how to talk. She’d never been more famous and more popular, and she’d never felt like less of a person.