[TF4A] [FB4A] [M4A] 'Bells' Of Every Chapel - Or, How Somebody Trans'd Country Music (A Story of Mistaken Identities, Three Chords and The Truth)

Sometime Soonish - The Grand Ole Opry

For anyone who valued their future in the country circuit - or, indeed, just their career in the industry in general - a headlining spot at The Grand Ole Opry marked a true, genuine highlight, and a sign that they'd transitioned out from the intermediate points of busking, barroom accompaniment, and incredibly patchy gig-work that marked the early (read: low) stages of any decent country artist's career. And yet, for Jessie Bell, the shy debutante who had just brought a collection of old industry hats, hollering young studs and overenthusiastic housewives a good few minutes of genuine contemplation, sadness and reflection up under that oh-so bright spotlight, this was yet another evening filled with deep, deep anxiety, and no small amount of self-loathing. Fiddling softly with an ornately carved french-tip nail, she caught a glimpse of that girl yet again in the mirror. The girl with dreams in her heart; a high-peaked hat, feathered hat on her head; an earnest new song on her lips; and an Adam's apple at her throat.

Like so much in Jesse Brahm's life, this new and objectively insane path his professional career had taken had emerged from an initial misunderstanding that he'd been too polite (and lazy) to correct. Growing up, young Jesse had never been the most profoundly masculine of specimens. When his brothers had taken long summer days off from school to fish down by the creek, go sunning, figure out what fascinated them about girls, and otherwise engage in profoundly boyish pursuits, Jesse had stayed at home, playing guitar and reading. Eventually, he had discovered that his musical dabblings actually bore a good deal of fruit, and he ended up receiving a number of accolades for his darling voice; in time, even being the first member of his family to enter any kind of college, when he found himself rolled into the New England Conservatory of Music.

But, as Jesse learned relatively sharpish, a fancy engraved wall-hanger, glowing recommendations from failed composers (read: lecturers) and a good four years out from working (save working up debts) hadn't exactly left him with a great deal to fall back on. Soon, even street-level busking with his golden voice was scarcely managing to keep up with the escalating cost of rent, and he kept having to consider making the hardest possible choice - heading back home, at which point he'd prove half his family right, and profoundly disappoint the others. There's gotta be somethin' else to fix myself with, young Jesse ruminated. Sadly, he would soon be right, in the most monkey's paw-ass fashion possible.

You see, Jesse, with his slender frame, his eyes of tender blue, his flawless skin, and his spot stationed exactly opposite the street from a local record executive's suite, had managed to catch the eye of a certain pioneering young Nashville entrepeneur. A career-maker and chart-fixer of influence, true, but one with profoundly unusual tastes. In this instance, one who adored the concept of whipping up a Faith Hill or Sierra Ferrell of their very own; a cocky, confident young firebrand, who would be sure to wiggle up the charts as smoothly as her Instagram reels locked in views upon views. Once said executive had managed to clock Jesse's pipes as the real deal, all that was left was the comparatively easier task of building the starlet around the scruffy young man. An invitation was laid out before the desperate, starving artist; plans were made; a sly pitch was laid out.

As Jessie mournfully considered, sat before the ring of fresh roses and fizzing champagne, he could have backed out at any point before or after the warning was given. His new benefactor had been very clear, that this was how things would be moving from now on; that it was all dependent on Jesse Brahms forever a barista, and Jessie Bell stepping into the tastefully sequinned heels that marked the Princess of Country. This life he'd taken up; this illusion, that had so many questioning, scrambling, desperate. Was it really worth it? To dwell in this kind of lie, to abandon the family she'd come from and let this new money shape her forever more?

Oh, hell. Probably. Given what had come before it. Jesse downed the booze, lit up a cigarette and, in the brief interval before her handlers came to claim her for 'a special interest group', got to work on something new. Something spicy. Maybe a little Latin twinge. Give those Mormons in the second row something to get scandalized over...

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Hi there! As you can see from this prompt, tonight (and for a while of recent, actually), I've been possessed with a desire to play some kind of transformed, twisted-around, hyper-feminised young country twink who demands of the market (and fetishes of a particular executive) have pushed into presenting as a deeply passable Nashville starlet. If you scan over my profile, you might recognise this one as being a little more straightforward (and modern-day) than some of the others (which are all still open, if you find any you prefer); and, while that's true, there's something to be said for directness, and 'the truth'. While the prompt does kind of assume that you'll be playing the record executive in question who lifts the bewildered young Ohioan boy into the high heels of a Texan woman, I'm open to hearing any and all good pitches or ideas as to who Jessie might get suddenly complicated with! If you are the executive, are you planning on showing yourself as the kind of fairly stereotypical ten-gallon-hatted, spur-booted, good ol' boy who built the industry to begin with; or would you maybe want to be a smoother operator, a modern woman of means in a slinky dress, come-hither expressions, and a large enough mixture of trust funds, former divorce settlements and industry connections to get any form of body, contract, or position she might so desire? What about a fellow performer, who happens to develop some kind of affection for the beguiling Jessie on-stage, but finds that, backstage, her inner circle seems to always be whisking her away at the first possible moment, leaving your meetings with her swift but deeply meaningful? Or perhaps you're even an obsessive fan, a conspiracy theorist, or a session musician who discovers Jessie's unfortunate, career-threatening secret?

So long as you can justify it, and you write well, with good grammar (note: the grammar thing is completely non-negotiable) and an eye for the erotic, the dramatic and the comedic, I'm sure we'll have a blast. (Note: put 'Two Doors Down' somewhere into your opening message, to show me you've read this far.) This prompt, like all my prompts, is open to any and all genders.

My main kinks for this prompt are feminization/crossdressing, bondage/BDSM, group sex/exhibitionism, stylish outfits, caning/spanking/flogging, humiliation/embarassment, slow-burn romance (potentially), intricate backstage plots, witty dialogue, detailed description, and searchin' in the sun (for another overload).

My main limits are gore, scat, bestiality, underage characters, and hoping to die.