Live the role (Patreon)

— And in the finale John jumps out of the door, — drawled the director Richard in his husky voice, leaning back on a folding chair and slapping the script with his palm. — But! — he suddenly raised a finger. — It has to be unexpected! Like… Boom! Flash! Light! Close-up!

— So the audience freaks out! — added Lucas, the assistant director, looking at the troupe and twirling a pencil. — Not just surprised, but really frozen with their mouths open. To the point where they even hold their breath.

— So, everything depends on a single shot, — Julie, a supporting actress, dragged out, crossing her arms. — On how John comes out.

— Exactly, — Richard snapped his fingers. — And now, if there are no questions, we’re getting ready for the run-through. Camera, lights, sound — everything must be polished to perfection.

Everyone stirred, breathing a sigh of relief that they were finally moving from words to action, but at that very moment a light cough came from the corner. It seemed no one even noticed. Then the cough came again, louder this time — ringing, with an unexpectedly feminine tone — and silence fell over the rehearsal stage.

All heads turned at once.

In the corner, under the glow of a test spotlight, sat Clark Matthews. But there wasn’t a trace left of the masculine actor they were used to seeing on posters. He was wearing a shiny mini dress with a plunging neckline, where the fabric barely held his round breasts. His legs, crossed on the chair, looked strangely smooth and tempting, and the red pedicure in platform sandals caught the eye more and more with every second. His hand was raised, as if he wanted to ask a question, and on his face was that same grimace he usually had when someone brought him the wrong coffee on set.

— Well? — director Richard was the first to break the silence, frowning. — You got a question, sweetheart?

Clark hesitated, as if fighting with himself. He felt the troupe’s stares burning through his skin. Of course, he was used to attention and even loved it, but right now he just wanted to disappear. He pressed his lips together, battling himself for several seconds, until at last he spoke.

— What… — his voice cracked, and everyone flinched. Now it sounded soft, melodic, far too feminine — nothing like the rough bass that used to knock out the hearts of his fangirls in one strike — what am I supposed to do today?

Julie couldn’t hold back and burst out:

— Oh my God, it’s a real Barbie!

— Quiet! — Richard hissed sharply, though the corners of his mouth twitched too. — Didn’t quite get the question, sweetheart.

Clark swallowed hard, feeling everything inside him tighten after that “sweetheart,” already regretting that he had agreed to this role for the million-dollar fee and allowed this to be done to him.

— Fuck… — he ran his hand along his neck, sliding lower to the fake silicone breasts that were way too big to ignore. — Don’t you think this is already too much?

Richard smirked, lazily tapping his knee with a pencil.

— Claudie, darling, you’ve only got one scene tonight in the “Blue Velvet” club, — Richard drawled lazily, his eyes fixed on her breasts as if the whole script was written right there. — Walk in, cross the hall, lean toward the table, put your hand on the guy’s shoulder, and say just one line.

— And looking… like this? — Clark jerked his head sharply, the two buns on top of it shaking like on some cheap pin-up doll. — I’m an actor! Not some… walking picture for a trashy magazine cover!

The whole troupe instantly started whispering. It looked so bizarre to them. Some unknown actress in a shiny mini dress calling herself an actor? And saying it like she was dead serious?

— What was that? — Julie whispered to Lucas, but he only shrugged.

— Maybe she just overheated, — muttered Lucas, grimacing and pretending to jot something in his notebook.

Richard cut through the noise with a short, commanding:

— Enough chatter. On set, everyone!

The actors reluctantly moved toward the “Blue Velvet” club decorations, some smirking, others shaking their heads. Julie whispered as she passed:

— Barbie’s totally lost it.

Actors and crew bustled around, shifting equipment. Julie glanced at Clark with a sly smile, but after catching Richard’s warning look, she quickly turned away.

Clark — or, as everyone around believed, “Claudie Manila” — sat glued to the chair, feeling how every second in this body turned into torture. The breasts in the deep neckline dragged heavily downward, the dress pressed into his shoulders with its straps, and the smooth legs gleaming under the lights looked way too provocative. He felt like he wasn’t sitting on a chair but displayed in a shop window.

Richard, pretending to check the lighting, moved in softly from the side and leaned close enough so only Clark could hear.

— Well? — Richard whispered. — Do you want to tank a million-dollar project? Or are you finally going to stop arguing and play the woman?

Clark winced, feeling the platform sandals glue him to the floor.

— I said what I said, — he muttered. — I’m an actor. And all this… — he ran his hand down the dress, lingering on the mesh insert under the breasts, — this isn’t me.

— You’re wrong, Claudie, — Richard smirked. — You know damn well all “this” is already integrating into your body and soon it’ll be yours. At least for the next six months, if I got those nerds in lab coats right.

Clark’s head snapped up as if he’d been shocked.

— What?! — burst out of him, and he instinctively grabbed his breasts with both hands, as if trying to feel where his body ended and the “props” began. And the worst part — in that moment, for the first time, he felt his own hands through those breasts. Not fully yet — the nanites were still working — but enough to make goosebumps run over his skin. His palms pressed, and the tits answered with a heavy, springy motion, as if responding not just physically, but deeper. Something clicked inside — and Clark realized: this wasn’t just stage trickery.

— Fuck… — he hissed, yanking his hands away as if burned. — They… what the fuck did they do to me?!

Richard leaned in even closer, his warm breath tickling Clark’s earlobe:

— You didn’t read the contract, did you? — Richard’s voice was calm, like he was talking about something ordinary, lunch breaks maybe, not the fate of an actor who’d just realized his body no longer belonged to him.

Clark jerked, the breasts in the deep neckline bouncing dangerously. He stared at Richard, feeling like every millimeter of fabric pressed into his skin, showing off curves he wanted to escape from.

— The contract? — he breathed out, swallowing hard. — It had stuff about the fee, about commercials, about festivals… But… not this!

Richard chuckled, leaning so close his lips almost brushed Clark’s ear.

— It was there, Claudie. Just in the fine print. — He smiled predatorily. — Nanites. Six months. Full immersion. No one must know who you really are. To them you’re just some unknown supporting actress with 18+ scenes.

Clark froze, feeling like everything around faded into the background: the troupe’s noise, the shifting of props, Julie’s laughter. Only one word stayed — “18+ scenes.” It cut through his mind harder than any punch.

— You… you’re kidding, — he muttered, clutching Richard’s sleeve so tightly that the long painted nails left white marks on the fabric. — I… I…

He started tugging at the seam where the fake breasts met his skin, trying to rip them off, but the implants had already begun to fuse with his body. He gasped, hissed in pain, and yanked his hands back, feeling the fabric of the dress stretch uncomfortably across his tits, the silicone weight responding heavily, as if it had already become part of him. He snapped his gaze up at Richard, rage and panic clashing in his eyes.

— It… it’s fused to me! — he struggled to catch his breath. — Do you understand what they did?!

— That’s why you’ve only got one scene today. Simple, — Richard said it like he was talking about the most ordinary task. He smiled softly, but there was steel in his eyes. — Walk through the hall, let everyone see this beauty, and say one line.

Clark jerked his head, the two hair buns twitching like some party girl heading to a nightclub.

— Beauty? — he hissed. — No fucking way! I refuse this bullshit!

His shriek on the last word made the other actors turn with puzzled looks.

— This isn’t bullshit! This is cinema, darling! — Richard declared loudly, then leaned in and whispered, — sure, you can refuse. Then instead of a million, you’ll pay the penalty, and… — he paused for a fraction of a second, theatrically — at least according to those scientists, you’ll still have to live with these tits for six months.

Clark pressed his lips together, bowed his head, and no longer screamed. His eyes darted around the set like a cornered animal. Almost whispering, he forced out:

— Six months?.. You’ve got to be fucking kidding… I… I can’t live like this…

— Pff, — Richard exhaled mockingly, — you think they just handed you new documents and dressed it up in a press release like you’ve always been Claudie Manila for nothing?

He leaned closer, his voice taking on a mocking drawl:

— You even got a passport. With a stamp. With all those sweet little numbers. To the system, you’re not Clark Matthews anymore — you’re a twenty-five-year-old babe with measurements ninety-seventy-ninety.

Clark froze, staring at him like an animal in a trap. He felt the dress pressing down on his breasts, as if underlining every word Richard said.

— Do you get it, Claudie? — the director went on, grinning. — Even your agent has no idea. To him, you’re just another ambitious starlet out of a hundred.

Clark sucked in air in a ragged breath. He wanted to protest, but his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

Richard suddenly dropped his gaze downward and, as if casually, drawled:

— Tell me… have you checked what’s down there… between your legs?

Clark jolted so hard his breasts bounced in the neckline, as if teasing on purpose.

— Wh… what?! — he leaned forward, feeling the straps of the dress bite painfully into his shoulders. — Are you fucking insane?!

— Well, what? — Richard shrugged, pretending to sound casual. — The scientists swore it would all be “for real.” Not some silicone trick, but real anatomy. Otherwise the audience won’t buy it. The camera sees everything.

He smirked and leaned in so close Clark caught the scent of his mint gum.

— Have you felt yourself there yet?

Clark turned pale and suddenly squeezed his legs shut — and in that moment he really felt something press and tighten between them, something that was nothing like a dick and instead felt soft, tight, as if it wasn’t a prosthetic at all.

Clark jerked, clamped his knees together hard, and the platform sandals slammed their heels against each other with a loud crack. His eyes went wide, his breath ragged.

— N-no way… — he barely forced out, cold sweat running down his back. — You… you’re lying…

Richard’s grin widened as he leaned back against the chair beside him.

— Oh, Claudie, you haven’t even begun to realize how real it is. — His voice dropped to almost a whisper: — You’ve got everything down there now, like a real girl. Every fold, every muscle… the scientists swore even the inside feels indistinguishable.

Clark was about to snap back, but at that moment Julie shouted from across the room:

— Hey, Claudie, are you coming or just rotting there? We need the run-through!

Clark flinched at her voice like he’d been yanked out of a nightmare. All the heads turned toward him, and he sat there, thighs pressed so tight together the muscles started to cramp. The dress stretched across his boobs, the glitter under the spotlights flashing even brighter, and he felt like a cheap whore on the street, not an actor.

— Come on, sweetheart, — Richard said quietly but firmly, giving his shoulder the faintest push. — Get up. Stop acting like a diva.

Clark wanted to argue, but his legs straightened on their own. The sandals clacked against the floor with a crunch. He rose — and at once felt his whole body shift: his breasts swayed heavily, his hips seemed to move on their own, and his waist felt cinched by an invisible band.

— Fuck… — he whispered so quietly almost no one but Richard heard. — I don’t know how to walk like this.

The director smirked:

— Don’t worry, you’ll manage. You’re an actor.

Clark wanted to protest, but he knew this time he was caught. ‘Just think of the money and the fame, the money and the fame,’ he kept repeating to himself, taking clumsy steps in the heels and moving toward the set.