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Touch ups! That's what Cynthia called them. Minor but vital corrections when the product wasn't quite right. Since his empathy training ten years ago, Brett had suffered through numerous of these touch ups and he was starting to hate how easily he could slip into character whenever his boss felt the need to punish his behaviour.
It was reaching the point where Brett felt the need to force his resistance to his female alter ego. It was humiliating that it had almost started to feel like part of him. That was why he was sitting up ramrod straight on the stool in the space Cynthia used as both her office and studio surrounded by photography and lighting apparatus. The leather leotard was a recent addition to his boss's wardrobe. Over the years, her tastes had shifted from shiny latex to other styles and Brett found that these always seemed to be extended to the collection of clothing used on him. The material clung to him as tightly as rubber ever had and he was restricted to short quick breaths.
“What you're feeling right now,” Cynthia told him sternly, “is something akin to what a bride will experience while she is cinched into her wedding corset. Maybe this will teach you to have a little patience.” She sighed. “With the amount of chances I have given you in your career, I would have hoped some of it may have rubbed off on you by now.” Brett would have laughed if it had been possible to catch his breath. She knew nothing of his patience. The countless humiliations he had put up with over the last decade knowing that the old bitch's retirement had to be just around the corner... And, finally, if the rumours he was hearing were true, it was finally here. “If it isn't too much to ask,” Cynthia continued, “do you mind trying to be professional for the next few minutes at least?”
The older woman whistled through her fingers and Brett sat up even straighter as the door to the studio began to open. The layers of cosmetics on his face resisted as he tried to adopt a neutral expression – Cynthia had really gone all out with the makeup this time. Brief panic flashed through him as a young woman, presumably another future bride, entered the room. The leather leotard was not only tight around his torso and he couldn't remember whether he had tucked, so he quickly wrapped one of his boot clad legs over the other – realising too late how humiliatingly feminine his pose was.
“Annabel, this is Brett. My brilliant but totally obnoxious wedding photographer. Without him, this company would not have had half the success it has had over the past ten years.” Cynthia paused just long enough for Brett to blush with surprise as the young guest looked at him with wonder. “However, without these occasional 'touch-ups' to correct his behaviour, Brett would have got us sued so many times that there would be no company. I suggest you continue them.” She stopped again to drink in the confusion on the photographer's face as his painted lips parted and his brushed eyes popped wide. “Brett, this Annabel, my niece. She will be taking over my role at the studio starting next month. I trust you will treat her with the respect you show me and not that you show our clients. To make sure, I will be showing her the ropes over the coming weeks...”
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