(Originally posted as a $3/story exclusive to my Patreon on January 26,
2017. Check out the link for dozens of early-access photo captions and

Anne was a serious actress. She had
the awards, the accolades, the critical plaudits to prove it. Her days of
playing the sexy ingenue or the eye candy were behind her.

Until one day, walking down the
street, something had caught the corner of her eye. She’d turned to see what it
was, and then… well, she had a vague memory of a colorful spiral, and a
voice, and the next thing she knew she was waking up in an alley, unharmed, the
contents of her purse unchanged, seemingly unaffected… until the next time she
tried to go out wearing pants, or long skirts, or anything that covered her
legs below her upper thighs. For some reason, she just couldn’t be comfortable
unless she was in heels–the higher the better–and her legs were bare.

At first, she didn’t connect it to
the strange blanking out on the street–she’d practically forgotten that
happened, which was odd in itself, when she thought about it. But then it
happened again. A glimpse of the spiral on the street, and the next thing she
knew she was waking up in an alley.

This time it was plunging necklines,
and she was becoming legitimately scared. She tried to tell someone, anyone,
only to find out she couldn’t. Any time she tried, she remembered the spiral,
and her thoughts and worries seem to just float away.

It happened again and again. Each
time she changed a bit of her personal style. She teased out her hair; started
wearing lipstick to heavily emphasize the fullness of her lips, stopped wearing
panties… The usual magazines pretended to be scandalized, crotch-shot photos
showed up in the tabloids and on the Internet… and she couldn’t stop. It took
effort even to remember why she should stop, to remember that she should feel
bad about it.

And then, today, as she walked down
the street, the spiral passed before her eyes. It was playing on a tablet; a
man flashed it across her field of vision, and helplessly she followed him into
an alley. She knew, somehow, that this would be the last time, and fought with
every ounce of will remaining to her, struggling to tear her gaze away, to stop
looking before it was too late.

But she couldn’t. It was too easy,
felt too good, to give in. To fall into the spiral. To let the last changes be

She would still be performing in
front of a camera. Just for much smaller audiences…

Model: Anne Hathaway

Photographer: Don Flood

Source: Corbis Outline