Futterstock Woman (Patreon)

Damn… This… is this me? Is this really me?

I can’t believe the girl in the mirror and I are the same person.

But it’s true. I feel my soft, warm skin as I lift my hand to my cheek and lightly touch it, feeling my fingers slide along the smooth line of my cheekbone where there used to be rough beard. My breathing stutters as I stare into the mirror, and my eyes catch on the text above my head again.

“Futterstock Woman.”

“Fuck you…” I whisper, but the text doesn’t disappear. It hangs above me like a watermark, moving with me even if I shift by a single millimeter, like it’s part of me. A part of me that’s attached to some invisible metal rod that doesn’t actually exist.

But this body does exist, and so do my… breasts, so real it feels like I’ve had them my whole life. But that’s not true! Not true, goddammit!

“Hey!” I shout, trying to get anyone’s attention, and in that same instant I freeze, literally cut off mid-word, because my body suddenly stops obeying me, like someone pressed pause right inside me, leaving me standing there with my mouth slightly open and my hand against my cheek.

And then it happens. Three seconds.

The longest three seconds of my life, where I can’t do anything at all, not even breathe, not even blink.

I can literally feel them.

Click.

The world turns back on.

And in that moment, from somewhere… not above, not below, but just inside the space itself, a calm, steady, emotionless female voice speaks:

— “Young surprised woman touching her cheek in front of mirror in cozy modern apartment. Natural light. Real emotions.”

I sharply suck in air like I’ve just surfaced from underwater and almost lose my balance as my body jerks forward for a split second, like it’s compensating for being held in place.

“What… was… that?..” slips out of me, and that high, soft voice sounds alien again, annoyingly weak, almost trembling.

I immediately turn, nearly stumbling in place because my center of gravity shifts forward again, and I automatically straighten up, balancing on these… these narrow legs that move differently than they should.

Everywhere, objects are labeled the same way as me: “Futterstock Sofa” above the couch, “Futterstock Pillow” above the pillow, “Futterstock Plant” above the plant, and so on.

Every damn object is labeled like that, as if this stock photo site owns them, like I’m actually inside their damn website.

“No. No no no! This is just a dream. Just a dream, you’re going to wake up and…” I start pacing around the apartment, but freeze again in an impossible pose, one leg stretched out, the other lifted, physics should be tipping me forward but I’m standing. Standing with a scared face, with my hand suspended in the air, and with this stupid slightly open mouth I can’t even close, like I’ve just been… posed.

Three seconds.

I count them again.

One.

Two.

Three.

And this time the voice sounds a bit louder, like someone deliberately turned up the volume:

— “Full body shot of scared young woman losing balance in modern apartment. Dynamic pose. Authentic fear.”

Click.

The world lets go.

With a dull exhale I lurch forward, barely managing to throw my hands out so I don’t slam face-first into the floor, but even that movement comes out awkward, too soft, too… weak.

“What the hell…” slips out of me as I straighten up with effort, feeling my breasts bounce and jiggle heavily under the thin blouse from the sudden movement, like it’s a separate weight I don’t control.

What the fuck?! I… I…

And then I remember how a couple days ago I argued with the head of that site, said I’d sue him, and in a rage grabbed a prototype of their new content generation system, smashed it against the floor, and left, hearing some stupid threats from their director behind me.

“No…” I exhale, and my voice again sounds too soft, too… unconvincing, like I’m making excuses to someone invisible. “This… this is their joke? They did this?! This is… a prank?!”

I want to shout, but stop myself. No, not this time. I don’t know what you did to me, but I’m not giving you any emotions.

And right then, a male voice:

“Hey babe, I’m home” and at that exact moment, like someone pressed an invisible button inside me, my lips automatically stretch into a soft, warm smile.

I freeze. Again, three seconds.

— “Young happy woman greeting her husband at home. Warm smile. Cozy domestic scene. Natural affection.”

Click.

I immediately wipe the smile off my face. I move quickly toward the voice, just to talk to someone at least, but the moment I step out of the room I feel that same sweet, sincere smile appear again, and my walk, which a second ago was fast and masculine, shifts into something quiet, relaxed, with a slight sway of my hips.

The man, tall, in a black T-shirt, athletic build, a typical stock model, is taking off his shoes. I walk up to him, put my hands on his chest and… oh god. No, not this! My body just kept moving on its own.

“Missed you,” I say, and my lips touch his damn stubbly cheek, and the moment the rough skin brushes my lips, I feel everything inside me clench into that unbearable pause again, like I’ve been yanked out of my own movement and placed into a frame.

Three seconds.

And the voice, quieter this time, but with some kind of… satisfaction, says over the scene:

— “Close up of loving young woman kissing her husband on cheek at home. Soft light. Genuine intimacy. Relationship concept.”

Click.

And when the world releases me again, I’m already standing slightly apart, and he doesn’t even notice, just walks past, casually slaps my hip like it’s nothing, and says, “Smells good, Woman.”

And I keep smiling, and only when he leaves does the smile slip off my face again. Woman. He called me Woman? Not even by name?! What the hell is this place?!