From 0w5s1.labrat@onr.com Tue Mar 25 18:27:33 1997
Path: nienor.IN-Berlin.DE!sauveur!IN-Berlin.DE!fub!fu-berlin.de!newsfeed.nacamar.de!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!news.idt.net!cdc2.cdc.net!news-out.internetmci.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.onr.com!usenet
From: 0w5s1.labrat@onr.com (Karen Mitchell)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: Story - Putting Her On - Part 1
Date: Mon, 24 Mar 1997 16:15:33 -0600
Organization: Onramp Access, Inc. 512-322-9200
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This is being reposted at the request of another of the major posters
to the group. Enjoy.
My address now contains a 5 character random string to help stop email
spam which will need to be removed before replying.
I did not write this and you must be 18 or over to read it as it may
contain a great deal of adult explicit sexuality. If this is
offensive do not read - delete file. For those of us who enjoy ....
enjoy! Please do not ask for files by e-mail - I can barely keep up
with what I have now. Sorry about the forged header, but it does help
keeping down on the junk mail.
Karen Mitchell
author unknown
Corey noticed the package on the doorstep of his condo as he hit
the button of his garage-door opener and turned his car onto his
driveway. United Parcel had, as usual, put his big coco-fiber doormat
over the box to disguise it as a box covered by a doormat. He drove
into his garage, parked, got out of the car, opened the door to the
rest of the condo as he hit the control button to close the garage
door, and went in. He walked up four steps to the entryway, walked
to the front door and opened it, retrieved the box, and put the mat
back in place before shutting the door.
The box had been on its side; with its top on top it was about
two feet square and three high. Corey looked at the labels: standard
UPS stuff, the sender one "N. S., Inc." in a suburb of Dallas. He
had ordered nothing of late, his birthday had been months before,
and no holiday was coming soon, but there it was, twenty-some pounds
in the usual brown cardboard. He picked it up and carried it into
his living room, noting with a glance that there were no messages on
his answering machine. From the right pocket of his slacks he took
his Swiss army knife, opened out the smallest blade, and slit the
tape holding shut the top of the box.
Inside, atop everything else, was a clear plastic bag, open on one
edge: a packet of information? Through the bag Corey saw a booklet
that looked like a magazine. Its full-color glossy cover showed a
young brunette, adorably cute to his taste but not unusually beautiful,
in white blouse with frilly blue bow, long blue skirt, white pantyhose,
and low-heeled blue sandals: a tall girl in the library of a Victorian
mansion, smiling at the camera. "New Selves, Inc.," read the text.
"New Woman 2800T Series with Tryout Mode. Instruction Manual."
Corey picked up the plastic bag with the packet. Underneath it,
snug in the box, was a silvery block. Its surfaces were irregular,
with the reflective layer covered in tough clear plastic. It was like
a block of freeze-dried, vacuum-packed food. Corey put the information
packet on the floor and with difficulty wiggled the block out of the box.
It was about a foot thick. Under it, each sealed in its own bag of
clear, tough plastic, were items of women's clothing: a pair of large
pink running shoes, a pair of large sandals like those on the woman on
the manual's cover, two bras -- one a sports bra in plum-colored Lycra,
the other an underwire in black lace -- both unremarkable at size 34B,
pantyhose, panties, a bikini, at least one dress...Corey didn't make an
inventory. He took the instruction manual from its bag and went over
to his favorite armchair to read it. He sat, opened it, and read:
Congratulations! You have purchased or been given the finest
in new-identity suits from New Selves, Inc.! In the five years we
have offered New Woman suits, thousands of satisfied customers have
put them on, changing themselves permanently from men into attractive,
fully-functional women, now happy in all walks of life, from acting
and modeling to business to homemaking, and as wives and mothers.
The 2800 Series second-generation suits offer swift, almost painless
metamorphoses, with indistinguishability from natural-born women
within six months, and the possibility of extreme changes in physical
form and/or personality.
The 2800T suits, as do all new-identity suits from New Selves
with a "T" in their series number, feature a Test Mode that lets
the customer wear them for short periods (four to six hours at most,
depending on a number of factors) before true metamorphosis begins,
yet within moments closely resemble the final form. The closer the
physical match between the wearer's form and the final form, the
longer the suit can be worn before metamorphosis starts. A potential
woman who is satisfied with relatively small skeletal changes can
try many different female forms (of his current build but of various
races, ages, figures, etc.) before deciding on what woman he will
become. With care, a transvestite can use his 2800T repeatedly,
to become, for periods of a few hours, compellingly female apart
from an impenetrable vagina, because exposure to the suit is not
cumulative. With a 2800T (or better yet, several), the transvestite
can make the most of his few hours as a woman, unencumbered by wigs,
heavy makeup, artificial breasts and other padding prone to come off,
and most importantly fear of discovery: the 2800T automatically
provides nuances of feminine poise and behavior that are difficult
for most men to learn.
Corey, incredulous, put down the instruction manual. New Selves?
he thought. Suits that change you into someone else, a guy into a
woman? Bullshit. That Test Mode sounds like fun. I mean, I'm not a
fag or anything, but it'd be cool to go around as a broad for a couple
hours. Too bad it's gotta be only a joke. The vacuum-packed thing is
supposed to be my very own 2800T, I bet.
Fascinated nevertheless, Corey kept reading, skipping around a
little:
Your 2800T is shipped freeze-dried and vacuum-packed. To
prepare it for use, cut the red corner of its package to break
the vacuum-seal and then pull the packaging apart at a seam.
The suit will have a grisly appearance, as of an actual human
skin carefully removed from a body cleaned, compressed, and
freeze-dried. Do not attempt to stretch it into another shape:
it will be leathery, but in places brittle enough to break, and
a damaged suit will not function properly if at all.
Put your 2800T in ten gallons or more of water for at least
four hours. Overnight is best, and although the exact time is not
critical, the suit will be ready to put on when the breasts have
the texture of actual female breasts. Water temperature should
not exceed 100 degrees F., but water below 40 F may retard the
reconstitution. Distilled water is preferable for repeated use
(see also the "Instructions for Transvestites"), but any potable
water will suffice. A bathtub, preferably cleaned carefully with
any cleansers then rinsed away thoroughly, is suggested.
Corey skipped to "Instructions for Transvestites," and began to
read:
Your 2800T can be worn repeatedly for short periods. The swift
initial action of suits in the T series, including the extension of
a temporary growth into your mouth and down your throat to alter
your voice and raise its pitch appropriately, means that you may find
that within five minutes of sealing the suit, you resemble closely the
woman that you would become if you were to leave the suit on. With
practice you may be able to return home after work and within half
an hour leave for a date as an attractive woman. A temporary
masking persona goes into action within moments, providing natural-
looking feminine poise and subconscious cues that identify a person
as female, as well as a rudimentary but convincing female personality.
A difficulty is that the precise time between your sealing your
suit and te beginning of your permanent metamorphosis into the
woman your 2800T "wants" you to become can be determined only by
experiment. This is called the "grace period." For the purposes
of this explanation your alter-ego's name is Jane. As mentioned
elsewhere in this manual, the grace period depends on a number of
factors, but overwhelmingly on physical similarities between you
and Jane. Loosely speaking, the more closely you resemble Jane,
the less "need" your 2800T "feels" to do more than provide a
remarkably realistic head-to-toe Jane mask.
In the packet containing this manual is a Physical Description
Sheet for Jane, giving her height, weight, various other physical
measurements, blood type, racial background, and so on. Obtain as
much of this information as you can about your own body, taking
measurements as accurately as you can. Appendix II of this manual
is a worksheet to help you determine the minimum length of your
grace period, and in the packet are two 3.5" flexible discs, one
for computers running MS-DOS and the other for Macintosh machines,
that provide the worksheet as a computer program. Determine your
grace period both with the manual worksheet and with at least one
of the programs. The results should be identical: if not, check
your work and try again. If the results still do not match, take
the shorter time as your grace period.
If you are unsure of any piece of data, assume the worst.
For instance, if Jane is entirely of European ancestry and you
think that you might have some but are unsure, assume that you
have none. If you do not know your blood type, give it as Unknown
and accept the reduction in grace period that this will cause.
Always err on the side of caution. The formula on the worksheet
and in the computer programs is believed to be very conservative,
but it does not always hold.
Grace period by experiment: The above method provides only an
estimate. For serious use, determine an accurate time by experiment.
Don your 2800T for 15 minutes longer than your grace period, and
then remove it completely. As usual, manipulation of the throat
seal is the best way to begin removal. Check for signs of incipient
transformation into Jane: most common is a slight discomfort in
the skin, like the beginning of a mild sunburn, when you remove
your 2800T. This indicates that the suit is attempting to incorporate
your skin into itself -- to combine itself with you as the first
step in creating Jane. After every attempt, leave the 2800T off
for at least ten minutes before you don it again.
A warning sign that you can detect before removing the suit is
increased sensitivity in your Jane "skin." Within seconds of your
donning a 2800T, the suit will no longer feel entirely like a suit:
you will seem to have a slight sense of touch at its surface. If at
any time this increases and the sense of touch in your actual skin
decreases, remove the suit as quickly as you can. (Note that the
2800T adapts its thickness as necessary -- to about that of a latex
condom when no padding is needed -- so that the distance between
the suit's surface and your actual skin will vary. Do not let
this mislead you about changes in sensitivity.)
By attempting longer and longer stays in your 2800, you can
determine how long your grace period actually is. Never extend
the trial period by more than fifteen minutes at a time. If you
do a series of trials in a row, remember to remove the 2800T
completely every time and leave it off for ten minutes or longer
before the next trial. When you reach a length of time at which
you begin to feel discomfort, subtract fifteen minutes from that
and take the result as your actual grace period.
Having your cake and eating it: A transvestite may become
tempted to spend a night or weekend as Jane with, say, a sexual
partner unaware of his true gender, using menstruation as an excuse
not to provide vaginal sex. Grace periods of over five hours are
rare, over six unknown. With ingenuity and claims of menstrual
problems, a transvestite in a 2800T may be able to spend fifteen
to twenty minutes alone in, say, a bathroom at regular intervals,
sufficient time to remove the 2800T entirely, wait ten minutes,
don it again, and wait until he again resembles Jane sufficiently
to show himself. This is risky: one can fall asleep and wake eight
hours later, the 2800T joined irreversibly to one's body and a
future as Jane a certainty. Attempts to extend the grace period
by opening the neck seal and immediately re-closing it are not
suggested; experiments indicate that anything from a slight loss
of grace period to a gain of several hours is possible, even
with the same wearer of the same suit.
The mask sticks: If after wearing your 2800T for longer than
your grace period you cannot remove it without severe pain (or at
all), DO NOT REMOVE IT. Pain of removal worse than a moderate
sunburn, or inability to remove it, means that although your
internal metamorphosis is not yet complete, YOU ARE NOW JANE.
If you began removing your 2800T, PUT IT BACK ON ENTIRELY AND
SEAL IT AT ONCE. Attempts at removal will grow more difficult,
painful, and dangerous as you proceed, and CAN BE FATAL. ACCEPT
YOUR NEW IDENTITY.
With your information packet is a blister-pack with two
liquid-filled gel capsules: at any time you desire while wearing
your 2800T, but especially after a failed removal, take the
capsules to ensure a faster, safer, more comfortable metamorphosis
into Jane. Chew the capsules in an emergency. The active compound
is absorbed to some degree through the lining of your mouth and
will put the metamorphosis on track within several minutes, whether
after a failed removal or just moments after donning the 2800T.
If after this you wish to become someone other than Jane,
call New Selves' toll-free customer service number, given on
the inside front cover of this manual. Especially if your
2800T was a gift or an unsolicited free sample, we might be
able to give you a new self once your metamorphosis to Jane
is complete. Restoration of your original self is not possible
at present, but we may be able to provide someone similar, or
at least help you to establish yourself as Jane.
Corey looked at the inside front cover, and there indeed was
an 800 number, with Central-Time hours for customer-service people
and the phrase, "at other times, leave voice mail." He was in the
Eastern time zone, and it was after hours, so he called to hear the
message.
"You have reached NSI's voice mail," said a woman's voice, a
very pretty voice: Corey wondered if it was supposed to be the voice
of a man changed to a woman by a Series 2800. "If you're having a
problem as the result of using one of our products, please leave a
message after the tone with your name and phone number." Corey
hung up, not sure of what to say: heckle them? ask who had sent the
supposed 2800T to him? He went on reading:
Care of the 2800T under repeated use: Your 2800T is best
stored in water, even if you intend not to wear it for long
periods (a week or longer). A plastic, glass, or stainless-steel
container of sufficient size to hold the suit and enough water
to cover it, preferably one with a tight-fitting lid, is suggested.
The water should be distilled; add one ounce per gallon of ordinary
household bleach (5% sodium hypochlorite solution with no scent added);
be sure that the bleach is mixed thoroughly with the water before
the water is added to the container. Exposure of the suit to
too much bleach will damage it. Every other day or after wearing,
rinse the suit and replace the water entirely. After wearing,
cleaning the interior of the suit with a mild soap suitable for
use on your skin is suggested (avoid deodorant soaps and soaps
with moisturizers, perfumes, and other additives). With continuous
water storage and the regular care, it should last at least one
year before you should either discard it or use it in a permanent
metamorphosis. Fading or the start of degeneration will indicate
when it has reached this point.
If for a period of a week or more you do not intend to wear
your 2800T, you may air-dry it. Hang it on a hard-plastic hanger,
by the shoulders with the head behind, as if it were a jumpsuit
with an integrated hood, in a dry place with free circulation of
air. Watch for growth of mold or mildew: at the first signs it
should be returned to water storage and within ten days used
either for a permanent metamorphosis or discarded. With careful
drying and storage in a cool, dry place, you should be able to
reconstitute it and use it even after five to six years.
What the hell, thought Corey, the bathtub needs cleaning anyway.
This has got to be bullshit, and maybe there's some sort of "Candid
Camera" type lurking around, filming me making a fool of myself, but
screw it.
Over a hasty dinner of frozen burritos heated in the microwave and
washed down with light beer, Corey looked at the Physical Description
Sheet for his "Jane." It was not a bad match. She was supposedly
5' 10", like himself, though her waist was some inches narrower. With
a shredded-beef burrito in one hand he rummaged through a kitchen
drawer and found a six-foot steel measuring tape, and took measurements
of himself: arms a bit longer, hips much narrower, legs about as long
as its. "Hey, hey, long grace period," he said aloud. The age on the
sheet was 21 to his 28, the ethnic background mostly Italian and French
but a quarter black (he was part Italian, part Irish, and not sure what
else), and the blood type O (he had no idea of his own).
From under his kitchen sink Corey got a misshapen, dried-up old
cellulose sponge of an insincere blue, some effective-smelling liquid
cleaner, and the brush he used on dishes, and took them to his bathroom.
He rarely took baths: the tub, pale blue ceramic on steel, was effectively
the bottom of his shower stall. A mixture of discolored soap scum and
strands of his own black hair -- he worried about going bald -- coated
its sides. He bunched the shower curtain and pulled it as far from the
faucet as he could, and made sure its bottom edge fell outside the tub.
After some splashing of water, squirting of cleaner, and angry ineffectual
scrubbing, he stripped and got into the tub, put the bottom of the
curtain back in, pulled the curtain across the tub, and turned the
shower on, cleaning the tub as he rinsed himself off. When he climbed
out and toweled himself dry, the tub was as clean as he'd seen it, and
he plugged the drain, put the shower curtain aside once more although
it still dripped, and turned on the faucet so as to fill the tub with
lukewarm water.
He put on his bathrobe -- terrycloth, once white -- and went down-
stairs. With his Swiss army knife he cut off the corner of the vacuum-
pack bag, and air whooshed in. He pulled it open and there, just as the
manual had said, was what looked like the skin of a woman, carefully
removed from her body, washed clean of blood, compressed into a block,
and freeze-dried. The skin, if it was skin, had an excellent complexion
of a light, even brown, and part of the block's surface was covered
with loose, frizzy light-brown curls. He picked up the block -- it was
cool and dry, the apparent skin like the dry skin on a callus -- carried
it to the tub, and eased it in. When the water began to trickle into
the overflow hole, he shut off the faucet.
For the rest of the evening, Corey watched television and drank
beer. After all, it was a Friday. Around midnight his curiosity got
the better of him and he went to have a look at the thing soaking in
the tub.
It had swollen up and stretched out. For a moment Corey thought
that he was looking at the dead body of a young woman with pale brown
skin and frizzy hair, floating face-down in his bathtub, its head near
the faucet. He gave it a hesitant touch on its back: cold, dead, wet
skin, but no body inside that. Almost nauseated, he turned the thing
face-up, not easy because it was floppy, slit from neck to crotch down
its front, and a mere skin in some places but thick and waterlogged in
the thighs and breasts. With no flesh and bone behind it, its face
was misshapen but feminine, an amalgam of European and African features
that Corey found beautiful. Its cheeks were high, its ears large but
delicate, its nose broad but with a pert turned-up tip, its lips
fashionably pouty around a wide mouth.
Corey felt its breasts. They were cold but they felt like a real
woman's. The supposed 2800T was ready for him to put on. He slipped
out of the bathrobe and stepped into the cold water of the tub, feeling
like a fool. He wrestled the thing into position -- inside and out it
felt like cold wet human skin -- and began to put it on, shivering from
its clammy touch: left leg, right leg, penis and scrotum into a tough
little sac at the crotch, left arm, right arm. His hands and feet slid
in smoothly, the water inside the suit's own hands and feet seeming to
vanish at the same time, the chilliness vanishing. The suit was not
rubbery or elastic, but somehow it stretched just enough to let him
put it on with ease. With hands gloved in what looked like light-brown
human skin he began to pinch the slit shut, starting just above the false
vagina. He took off his glasses and pulled the head on, wondering how
they would look on a woman's face if by some chance the suit actually
worked. The head slid neatly into place, nostrils and mouth and ears
fitting as naturally over Corey's as if the suit had been molded over a
cast of his head. Behind each set of false eyelids was a brown film, and
by some instinct he reached up and with a fingertip pressed one into each
eye. They popped in comfortably, like contact lenses.
Corey began to pinch the suit shut, proceeding upwards. When he
came to the false breasts he, again as if by instinct, put one brown-
gloved hand over each and pressed both into place on his chest, where
their inner surfaces at once adhered. Then he pinched the rest of the
slit shut, sealing it at the neck.
"Comfortable, anyway," said Corey aloud, in his own voice. He
looked down at his costumed body: it looked disturbingly feminine,
and he felt the start of an erection. Something at his crotch clamped
his penis, squeezing the blood out of it and keeping it limp. "Oh,
shit!" he said. "This is for real!" Over a few seconds his eyesight
became clear, as if he were looking through binoculars that someone
was adjusting to the proper focus, and the filmy things in his eyes
seemed to grow thicker as it happened. Something in the costume
pinched in his waist, and the costume's padding in the thighs and
buttocks clung tightly, as if trying to become part of his flesh.
Without stepping out of the tub, Corey turned towards the bathroom
mirror on the opposite wall. A tall young woman with pale brown skin,
wet curly hair, adequate breasts on a rather mannish figure looked back.
At first her face, stretched tight over Corey's, was simply his with a
different complexion. Then for a few moments Corey felt slime flow over
his face, and as he watched the woman's face shifted into a beauty's,
far lovelier than the boneless face Corey had admired when the suit
floated in the tub. He made the reflection raise her hand to it and
through the false skin -- very thin -- that made his hand hers, he probed
its features. Over his jaw the covering was also thin, but near his
mouth it was thick, forming her pouty lips. He pressed against what
looked like impossibly high cheekbones, and felt them shift slightly:
the false skin had made the real flesh over his own cheekbones become
remarkably firm, covered it with a hard layer of its own, and then
provided false muscle attached to this "cheekbone." Yet when he tried
out expressions on the woman's face, the skin and supposed muscle moved
in an entirely natural way. Unless he pressed very hard against the
false bone, the illusion was flawless. He made the woman smile, frown,
grimace, open her mouth wide as if to scream, wrinkle her nose, raised
her eyebrows: her face did everything perfectly, showing no sign that
it was not a real face, a real woman's.
Something at the corner of the false mouth wriggled inside, stretched,
avoided his attempts to bite it, and sent a projection down his throat.
He coughed a few times as it tickled him, but that was no use. His
larynx began to feel peculiar, and he felt several brief pains he could
not localize. The entire neck of the suit began to tighten, but he did
not feel as if he were being strangled -- not quite. The neck of the
reflection seemed to become longer and more slender.
Various parts of the suit began to get thicker, or thinner, or
tighter, or looser. Corey felt trapped inside a bag of oozing slime,
but he watched in amazement as his appearance changed from woman-faced
but androgynous to entirely female, head to toe. Perhaps ten seconds
after the changes stopped, the suit became perfectly comfortable. Corey
put his woman-skinned right hand to his false left breast, and found
that the manual had been right: the surface of the suit now sent his
nervous system slight sensations of touch, augmenting those of his
real skin. The rest of the suit was entirely numb, though it clung to
him as if part of his own flesh.
Corey examined the woman he appeared to be: tall, unusually pretty,
naked. Her crotch would have bulged with Corey's erection had the
mechanism of the suit allowed it. She looked Italian and French
and one-quarter black, as the physical data sheet had said. Her dark-
brown hair fell to her shoulders, and as it dried it revealed something
between curls and frizziness. Her eyes seemed slightly too large for
her face, deep brown and alluring. Her forehead was high, aristocratic,
and smooth, with the skull beneath curving back well below her hairline,
giving it a touch of the mask. Her nose was broad, but its tip turned
up and Corey wanted to kiss it. She had remarkably high cheekbones,
a full mouth with pouting lips, and a deliciously stubborn chin that
was almost entirely Corey's own. Her ears were delicately-shaped if
slightly large for her head, and the piercings in their lobes did not
go through Corey's flesh.
She had broad shoulders, but they were square though Corey's sloped.
Her breasts were not especially large but very high and firm, her armpits
carefully shaven, and her strong arms and legs were sleek and womanly
where Corey's were wiry. Her waist looked pinched-in, as if she wore
an invisible corset, and although inside her Corey was being squeezed
in half, he could feel nothing but skin over hard muscle when he probed
her waist with her fingers. Her crotch seemed an ordinary woman's,
but Corey spread the lips of her vagina and examined the space with
with a delicate-looking forefinger. He felt only a slick furrow, very
shallow. Her buttocks and thighs were perhaps slightly plump, her feet
large for a woman's but in proportion to her size, and her shaved legs
were arousingly feminine. They even had a few little patches of razor
stubble, a touch of realism Corey found disconcerting.
"Fuck it," said Corey in her voice: higher than his own, more
resonant, definitely feminine. It seemed to have an accent to it, one
that he couldn't place just then. "This thing really does work. Except
for the cunt I'm just like a real babe." He reached for a towel and
rubbed his false skin and hair dry. After that the hair looked messy,
and he brushed it into some sort of order. He hefted his false breasts,
finding that they felt just like a real woman's, except that they moved
against his chest and sent a faint but pleasurable sense of touch from
their surfaces. He tried rubbing his false clitoris, but it was too
numb for the touch to be stimulating.
He saw that he'd left his watch on the bathroom counter. Twelve
twenty-five, already Saturday. It was a sports watch, more or less
unisex, and he put it on his left wrist, over a patch of brown false
skin slightly paler than the rest. The "woman's" wrist seemed more
delicate than his own, but the watch's buckle used the same hole in
the strap as usual.
He addressed the beautiful naked woman in the mirror. To him she
was remarkably desirable. "I wanna fuck you, babe," he said, and smiled.
Her voice thrilled him. He placed her accent. It was that of an
American midwesterner half-covering a delicious West Indian lilt, and
her smile was womanly with a touch of mischievous little girl. Corey
nearly panicked at how her self had taken possession of him, but then
he remembered what the manual had said about false personalities: the
suit was masking his self and behavior with female ones that matched
his appearance.
"I'm in yo' skin now, baby," he told his reflection, faking a "black"
accent. It sounded phony and he dropped it before going on. "Black
is beautiful. Uh-oh, I gotta see how long I can stay you." But he
automatically rubbed the end of his stick of unscented deodorant on the
shaven armpits, just as he did on his own after a shower, before he went
off to get the physical data sheet for this form and the floppy for the
Mac version of the grace-period program.
Corey drew the drapes in the extra bedroom he used as a computer
room -- though why should he care if any neighbor up this late saw a
pretty woman, stark naked, at his computer? He turned on the computer
and ran the program right off the floppy, typing in the data for the
woman he now resembled and the man he really was. The suit had given
him fingernails a little longer than his own, making typing difficult
at first, but soon they caused no trouble. On many questions he had
to guess -- he didn't want to take off this sexy female shape and
measure himself, and after all he could always run the program again
or work it out by hand -- but at least he had an answer in under ten
minutes: minimum grace period, three and one-quarter hours. He ejected
the floppy and shut down the Mac.
He looked at the watch -- was the wrist really more delicate and
feminine than his own? he wondered, but of course the strap fitted
snugly at its usual notch -- and found that it was past one. Well,
he thought, figure at most an hour since I started putting her on --
ha ha, double meaning there. Be conservative. Get out by three. Two
more hours, if I like, looking like a hot babe of a woman. I like.
I'm not a fag or anything, but this is fun.
Corey went to the box that the suit had come in and got out and
unwrapped the clothes. New Selves had fitted quite a wardrobe into
the package, much more than he had noticed before. In seconds he'd
chosen a pair of low-heeled black sandals, black pantyhose with
built-in panties, a strapless black bra, and a tiny wine-red dress,
strapless and low-cut and very short-skirted. He found the jewelry box
and took from it a pair of dangling garnet earrings and a pendant on
a heavy gold-colored chain, a heart an inch and a half across covered
with a few dozen garnets like those in the earrings. The garnets matched
the dress perfectly. There was a tiny gold-colored watch, too, and Corey
set it to the correct time and replaced his sports watch with it on the
brown wrist.
Putting on the women's clothes was almost automatic, and again Corey
was disconcerted until he remembered that the suit was helping him
behave like a woman. He fastened the pendant's chain around the neck
and slipped the hooks of the earrings into the piercings as if he
did such things almost daily, and without thinking tied back his
false hair with a frilly black elasticized ring he snatched from the
pile of clothes, pulling the hair tightly back as if to stretch the
false high forehead more tightly against his own. Only the sandals,
which he could barely fit onto his feet even with the straps let all
the way out, gave him the least trouble.
He looked at himself in the hall mirror. The reflection seemed
entirely that of a woman, and Corey's seeing his own expression on
her face, her whole form moving as he moved, would have given him a
painful erection had the suit not forced his penis to stay limp.
Her pale brown skin, from face to low decolletage, from shoulders to
fingers, looked warm and inviting and flawless. Her tiny dress was
tight against the breasts and waist, and its skirt barely covered
her crotch; her legs were sleek in their black pantyhose. "I'm
beautiful," he said, and though that voice was deep, almost a tenor,
it could not have been a man's. He smiled at the woman in the mirror,
who smiled back, a wistful little aren't-I-sweet smile that made him
want to hug her. He wrapped his own arms, sheathed in her flesh and
skin, around her form, hugging her as best he could.
"I could go for you in a big way," he said to the reflection,
trying to sound like himself but instead sounding like a woman trying
to seduce a man. "Ah, fuck you," he said. "I'm going to put someone
else inside you and make sure he doesn't get out, and then I'll have
you for myself." That sounded absurd and Corey found himself giggling
deliciously. "Fuck it," he growled, still womanly.
What now? Corey looked at the delicate little watch: almost 1:45.
He had an hour and fifteen minutes, maybe an hour and a half, maybe more
if he felt like staying this way indefinitely. He could fondle his
false breasts: they hadn't much sensation even at the nipples, but
the coverings on his fingertips were thin and it would be rather
like fondling any ordinary woman's breasts -- except that these
were attached to his body. Masturbation wouldn't work: his penis,
embedded somewhere in false woman-flesh, felt almost as numb as the
suit's well-shaped clitoris and rudimentary vagina.
Corey decided to go shopping. It was ten minutes' drive to a huge
all-night drugstore, and he was already thinking: maybe I can use
this suit to seduce someone. Some guy I know, some friend. Knock
him out, take the suit off, put him inside, let him stay in till he's
turned into her, and comfort and look after the poor confused girl.
She'll be so grateful. Instant girlfriend. Some makeup and perfume
wouldn't hurt. New Selves didn't think I needed them, I guess.
The dress had no pockets, but among the clothes was a tiny black
purse, a rigid semicircular box with a shoulder strap. He lengthened
the strap to hang at his waist, got his wallet from its usual place
in the drawer of the hall table, and stuffed all the cash in it and
his ATM card into the little purse. He found his keys, blew a kiss
to the woman he saw in the hall mirror as he went past, and went into
the garage.
Part 2
Corey drove slowly and carefully, worried only about avoiding both
drunk drivers and the police. He was not at all nervous about going
out in public as a woman, not because his disguise was nearly perfect,
but because the false self the suit gave him, superficial though it
was, made his appearance seem natural to him. A few blocks from his
place he had realized that he was driving without a license, but he
went on: no police officer would believe that he was a man named Corey,
that he was not a beautiful if rather tall woman. It didn't strike him
that he could take the costume off for the police and look like the
picture on his license again, and he decided, illogically, to take the
small risk of being detained past his grace period and justifying any
belief in his womanhood.
It was five after two when Corey parked in the shopping-center lot,
now almost empty, just outside the drugstore. He got out, locked his
car, crammed the keys into his tiny purse, and walked the few steps to
the store's entrance doors. As he went in, a stockboy, twentyish and
lanky, wheeling a cart stacked with boxes of tampons, looked at him in
amazement, and he smiled seductively at the guy, not realizing that he
was being more than friendly. Corey had expected to be confused, but
he found himself selecting makeup as if he knew what he was doing. Soon
his hands were full, but the stockboy, grinning sheepishly, wheeled
one of the store's little shopping carts over to him, saying, "Here you
are, ma'am."
Without meaning to, Corey gave him another please-fuck-me smile
and said, "Oh, thank you!" in a higher voice than he had yet used.
"My pleasure, ma'am," he said, and retreated.
Corey, fingers clumsy in their disguise, dropped lipstick, blusher,
foundation makeup, mascara, and so on into the cart clumsily, then found
and added hairpins and barettes. He looked through several aisles, tried
ten different perfumes and chose three. In the end he had to use his
ATM card to get another hundred dollars, and what he bought cost all
the money he had taken from his wallet plus seventy dollars of the added
hundred. A weary-looking young black woman, about Corey's height but
pudgy, dark-skinned, and homely, looked at her remarkably beautiful
customer with undisguised envy as she rang up his purchases.
Out in the parking lot, a man approached Corey. He was fortyish,
pasty-skinned, and obviously drunk -- Corey could also smell the booze
as he approached -- and leered at him. "Say, miss," he said, as Corey
reached the driver's door of his car, "how much for a blowjob?"
"I'm not a hooker," said Corey, all prim schoolteacher, unlocking
the door. His voice seemed to be stuck in a high register.
"Oh, sorry," said the man, "but you're kinda dressed like one, and
at this time of night, and...I'll pay you for one anyway. God, you're
beautiful. I get a hard-on just looking at your face, not to mention--"
"No, thank you," said Corey, getting in, and when the man tried to
keep him from shutting the door, Corey, his muscles still his own
underneath the girl-suit, slammed the car door on his hand. The man
yelped with the pain, cringed aside when Corey opened the door a crack
to free him, and howled half-coherent curses at Corey as Corey slammed
and locked the door and drove off.
As Corey left the parking lot he noticed the time on his car's
clock: 3:01 AM. Usually the car clock was within a minute of being
correct, so he would have to strip off his sexy female clothes in
a hurry when he got back, then get out of the 2800T as quickly as
possible. Probably he would be okay, but he'd been careless with
the estimation program, and for all he knew he was already starting
a permanent change into a real woman. He forced himself not to speed.
He turned a corner and saw that a slow freight train was blocking
the way home. "Oh, *shit*!" he said, quite the enraged woman. By
this time the train would be blocking all nearby streets parallel to
the one he was on, and he couldn't think of a practical route around it.
The car clock read 3:22 by the time the crossing gates went up,
and Corey, afraid now, made it home in under five minutes, left his
purchases in the car, and started removing his woman clothes the moment
he was in his front hallway, scattering sandals, purse, jewelry, hose,
sexy dress, and so on as he proceeded towards the bathroom. As he all
but tore off his woman's watch he saw how late it was: well after 3:30.
He massaged the slender female throat that was perhaps now his real one,
and after forty seconds or so it opened up, to his great relief. He
clawed at the woman-skin on his chest, and the slit began to open. The
suit stuck to him, reluctant to let go, and in a few places on his chest
and abdomen his skin ached and looked slightly flushed, but in another
minute the slit was open to the crotch.
He pulled the suit's head off. Something in his throat stretched
and let go, joining itself to the inside of the suit's lips. His own
lips had chapped, the skin and flesh over his cheekbones felt pinched,
his throat ached dully inside and out, his eyes stung a little from
the suit's version of contact lenses, but the head had indeed come off,
as if under protest, and Corey looked with relief at his own face in
the mirror -- and with a touch of diappointment. Her face, he thought,
is much nicer to look at.
Corey had to pull hard to free his arms and legs, but although the
bond had been tight the skin wasn't sore. His genitals, embedded in
something tough, had to be eased out, and afterwards his foreskin was
almost raw and his testicles ached as if they had been squeezed gently
but with increasing force the whole time he had worn the guise of a
young woman. Corey scooped up the 2800T from the floor and dropped it
into the cold water that remained in the bathtub, not bothering to
rinse it out after use as suggested in the manual. He was exhausted
and went to bed, masturbating briefly, despite his sore foreskin, to
fantasies about having sex with the woman he had just impersonated.
Soon afterwards he was asleep.
Corey woke and looked at the clock on his nightstand. He had not
set the alarm, and he was amazed that it was just after six in the
morning. He felt refreshed, fully rested, as if his time in the suit
had been sleep. His mind seemed unusually clear, and an idea sprang
up in it.
Jogging, he thought. Dave will be jogging this morning, and he'll
be out of his house a bit after seven, late because it's a Saturday.
Dave's the one, artsy Dave. He's not a fag but he'd be better off as
a girl. I'm going to meet him on the jogging trail -- as her. She
eats breakfast with him, she gets him to take her on some dates, then
I take her off and put him inside her and don't let him out. It's a
beautiful body already, but with Dave in it, it will be *fuckable*.
No fair that all my friends are other guys. Dave can fucking well be
my girlfriend instead. He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom,
everything a little blurry because he had left his glasses there when
puting on the 2800T.
The suit lay in the bathtub, half-floating in the stagnant water.
He pulld the plug, let the tub empty, stepped in, drew the curtain,
started the shower, and rinsed the suit inside and out. He hung it from
a towel bar and took his usual shower, but instead of drying himself he
took the suit down and slipped into it. It had conformed to him, and
he fitted into it easily, almost naturally. After shutting the seal he
began to force the suit against his body, hoping to make the changes
happen as quickly as possible. He pressed the scalp and forehead,
pushed and pinched the nose, rammed the heels of his hands against the
cheeks and then the jaw-line, and almost strangled himself trying to
squeeze the neck into womanly slenderness. By pushing with his legs
he mashed the breasts between his chest and a wall, tried to encircle
the waist with his hands, put the crotch to the corner of his bed
and leaned on it, squeezed the arms and legs, kneaded the feet. When
the voice-changing projection extended itself into his mouth he inhaled
it eagerly, and as an experiment sang a few bars in a falsetto voice
before breaking into coughing. With a sharp but very brief pain,
something inside his larynx locked it into a very unfamilar but oddly
comfortable position. He tried to speak but at first could not, then
found himself able to say, "Oh, fuck, I thought I'd--" in a resonant
and beautiful soprano, and then "Holy shit!"
Corey looked at the woman in the mirror. His efforts seemed to have
been worthwhile: this time her face was already entirely feminine, her
neck deliciously slender (though he felt on the verge of strangulation),
her breasts high and firm, her waist almost girlish, her solid buttocks
a part of his own flesh, her legs unquestionably a woman's. Corey's self
looked out of her eyes, but otherwise she was someone else. "Oh, God,"
Corey made her say, feminine allure in her voice, "I can't wait until
Dave gets like this," and he lowered her form to the toilet seat, sat,
urinated like a woman, then defecated. Long, strong, but feminine
fingers tore a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, wiped the
urine off her pubic hair, and wiped a trace of feces from her pale
brown skin, the skin that extended right to Corey's anal sphincter.
Now apparently a tall, beautiful, well-muscled young woman, Corey
rummaged through the clothes he wore for exercising and sports. The
box from New Selves had had only the sports bra, now snug over his fake
breasts, and the pink running shoes, which even without socks were just
slightly too small. "Oh, shit," said Corey aloud in the girlish wail
that arouses the protective instincts of many men, "this'll take forever!
Why the fuck didn't I figure out what she'd wear before I put her on?"
But not fifteen minutes after wiping her buttocks, the woman Corey wore
was dressed for jogging. Corey's white terrycloth sweatband looked good
against her dusky forehead, the black tank-top that didn't fit him was
perfect over her breasts, the black Spandex shorts Corey had worn once and
put aside in shame fitted well even if they revealed the contours of her
crotch, and Corey's short white socks and new white running shoes looked
unisex and perfectly natural for her to wear.
Corey put his sports watch on his costumed wrist and noted the time:
he had nearly ten more minutes, he figured. He untied his shoes, took
out their white laces, and replaced them with the pink laces of the
shoes from the New Selves box. He went out to the garage for the bag
of his early-morning purchases, rummaging through it as he headed back
to the bathroom. He found and applied a hint of eyeshadow, just a little
darker and ruddier than his false skin, sweat-proof mascara, and some
lightly-tinted lip gloss guaranteed not to smear. He dabbed perfume,
a clone of "Shalimar," behind the false earlobes, at the wrists, and
just above the sports bra. He went back to the living room, found in
the jewelry box a pair of little earrings with pink cabochons --
rhodochrosite? -- put them through the holes in the lobes, fastened them.
Corey was about to leave when he remembered that he needed something
to serve as a purse. A minute of rummaging in a closet turned up a fanny
pack in bright red nylon, into which he stuffed money and his ATM card
before fastening its strap around his waist, the pack to the front, and
then unfastening it to tighten its strap. Fastened again, the strap was
snug but comfortable, and Corey snatched up his keys and left, catching
a glimpse of beautiful woman in the hall mirror on the way out.
Corey jogged down the street towards an entrance to the jogging trail,
again entirely at ease looking and acting and dressing like a woman.
His watch read 6:56. Shit, he thought, I didn't notice when I put her on.
Figure 6:20, so it's home by maybe 9:30, 9:45 if I feel lucky -- do ya
feel lucky, punk? do ya feel lucky, girl? -- and without Dave. Can't
tell how warm it is except from the air I'm breathing. All cozy, wrapped
in pretty girl. If I wasn't I'd be cold wearing this little. Shit, but
it's comfortable in here. I'm in better shape than I thought. Wonder
what happens when I sweat? Forgot the deodorant. Maybe the suit keeps
in the stink. Maybe Dave will just smell the perfume and stare at my
lovely fake tits. Does he like his women this big and tall? He used
to date a volleyball player my height.
He got onto the trail and kept moving. A fiftyish man approached
from the other direction, Corey's appearance making him stare, his lust
thinly disguised with a friendly smile. "Good morning!" cried the man.
Corey batted his eyelashes -- the mascara made upper and lower cling
just a little to each other -- and smiled saucily. "Good morning," he said,
voice girlish and pert. A few yards further on, a thirtyish woman, lean
and wiry, all but flat-chested, forced a smile to her plain, acne-scarred
face as she approached. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?" said Corey, pity
dripping from his false face and voice, and the woman scowled as they
passed. "I'm such a bitch," whispered Corey to himself.
He quickened his pace as he passed the point where Dave usually got
on the trail. After that point, Corey knew, the trail sloped upward onto
a lightly-wooded hill and took a series of curves. On one curve was
a bench where he could sit and watch Dave enter the trail. If Dave
went the way Corey had come, Corey could run after him; if he went
towards him, his usual way, Corey could jog slowly and let Dave meet him.
Corey was short of breath when he reached the bench, but comfortable.
His disguise made his panting into erotic little feminine noises, and
its hair and sweatband were sodden and its other clothes growing damp.
He put its face to the smooth brown of its left armpit, with ease despite
his constricted neck: just a slight musk, and the spiciness of the perfume.
Its buttocks padded the bench as he sat, the image of a beautiful woman
catching her breath, deliciously vulnerable in her exhaustion.
Dave got on the trail and headed towards him. With an adorable
little sigh, Corey got up and started to jog onwards, rather slowly.
In a few minutes he heard Dave approaching, and kept going, turning
his beautiful-girl head to look back at Dave, a pleading expression
on its face.
Dave looked surprised at first, then contented. "Are you all right,
Miss?" he asked, all concern and helpfulness. They stopped and faced
each other. Dave's eyes took in with delight every detail of the womanly
form that concealed Corey.
"I didn't think I was so out of shape," said Corey, his wistful
smile and panting breaths made adorable by his disguise. "I can barely
handle a short jog now."
"You look like an athlete," said Dave, and looked politely at what
masked Corey's wiry arms and legs, less so at what masked his buttocks
and chest.
The beautiful face demanded the consolation of a strong man. "I
was," said Corey, false brown eyes moist with false tears, a catch in
his high voice, "but it's all gone now and I don't see how I'll get it
back." The feminine personality was manipulating Dave with skill, and
though Corey was frightened he kept calm and let it stay in charge.
Dave looked concerned, but, Corey thought, more than a bit lustful.
Dave said, "Look, why don't you take it slowly for now? Don't worry,
I'll keep you company."
Corey shook his girl head, shedding a few drops of the sweat that had
filtered through its false scalp. "I couldn't have you do that!" he cried
in a lovely soprano squeal. "You won't get enough exercise."
Dave smiled back and put out his right hand. With both the suit's
sense of touch and his own, Corey felt Dave's hand caress his left
shoulder. "Don't worry," said Dave, "one day off won't matter."
"All right," said Corey with a little oh-thank-you smile, and they
proceeded slowly up the hill.
Around eight o'clock Corey's beautiful-woman face wore an exhausted
look, and Dave said, "Had breakfast yet? As you might know, there's a
little place near here with a juice bar."
Corey knew. "I'm new in town. I'd love some breakfast."
"Okay," said Dave. "Just a little further. Let's walk." They did.
"My name's Dave, Dave Ellis."
Corey panted a few times while racking his brains for a name. Coral?
Cora? "I'm Carol Lasalle," said a woman's voice from inside him, as if
on its own. For a moment, Corey felt that it was telling the truth, that
this was his -- her? -- real name.
"You have a lovely accent, Carol," said Dave, guiding Corey off the
trail and to a sidewalk that had been hidden by shrubbery. "I can't
place it."
"Really?" said Corey. "I've been trying to shake it. My parents
moved from Jamaica to Chicago when I was a little girl." Corey had
visited Jamaica twice, knew Chicago well, and told himself that he
could fake things for long enough -- if not, he could pose as a mystery
woman with a secret past. One way or another, Dave would stay interested
and Corey would soon have him inside the suit, changing permanently into
"Carol Lasalle."
"I suppose you wanted to fit in when you were in school," said Dave,
leading Corey around a corner both knew well, "but now it's a crying
shame to hide it."
"I guess if you put on a mask and keep it on," said Corey, "after
a while it sticks and you can't take it off. I can't change it back."
Corey didn't catch the look of triumph in Dave's eyes. "Some people
would be better off if their masks stuck to their faces," said Dave,
"but when it comes to your accent it's a pity."
The restaurant with the juice bar, The Natural Place, was an old
building once a small factory, big wooden beams cleaned and varnished and
their steel fittings painted dove-gray, leaky skylights re-built, wooden
chairs and tables on the concrete floor and on a second level of wood
decking. Corey ordered an orange-and-yogurt drink and a blueberry muffin,
Dave a giant-sized cafe latte and one each of two types of bran muffin.
They sat and talked, Corey diverting the conversation to Dave, who loved
talking about himself. After Dave's trip to the restroom, Corey had to
explain his assumed surname (requiring the creation of a great-grandfather
born on Martinique), but soon steered the conversation to a safe path.
Corey was very hungry, but he nursed the drink and muffin, having
decided that to eat more would be out of character for Carol. "Are
you sure you don't want anything else?" said Dave, just after ordering
more, a cranberry-walnut muffin and a pitcher of water.
"No," said Corey in a polite-schoolgirl voice, "no thanks."
"You're a tall woman, Carol" said Dave, "and you're not at all fat.
That's no kind of breakfast."
"I never eat much breakfast," said Corey, and looked at his watch.
It was almost 9:15. "Oh, no!" he cried. "I forgot. I have to meet
someone in fifteen minutes."
"On a Saturday morning?" asked Dave. Corey nodded his Carol head.
"Can't it wait?"
"I wish it could," said Corey, Carol's voice full of apparent regret.
"I'll get a taxi. What's my share of the bill?"
"Nothing," said Dave. "My treat. I'll even leave a good tip. I'd
love to see you again, too."
Corey thought for a moment. "Is the Blue Parrot a good restaurant?"
he asked Dave. "Someone told me it was, but like I said I'm new here."
Dave smiled. "One of my favorites."
"Sunday evening at seven? Meet you there?" asked Corey.
"Sure," said Dave, and took out his wallet and extracted a business
card. "Home number on there, too. Let me know if something comes up."
He did not ask for Carol's number or address.
"Okay," said Corey, and as he got up, Dave got up as well and kissed
him on the brown material masking his left cheek, just under the false
cheekbone, gently but firmly. Corey pressed Carol's lips against Dave's,
if briefly. They said their goodbyes and Corey rushed out to catch a taxi.
Corey was lucky that morning, it seemed, because a taxi was waiting
outside. "Do you have a fare already?" Corey asked the cabbie.
The cabbie, his skin a shade darker than the Carol suit, smiled
broadly, enjoying Carol's shape. "Alice somebody," he said, "but she's
kept me waiting ten minutes without showing up. Hop in, ma'am." Corey
did, giving his own address, figuring that concealment mattered less
than getting out of the suit in time.
"I don't think I've had a prettier woman in my cab in months," said
the cabbie, after a few blocks.
"Why, thank you," said Corey, and giggled.
"You're a fashion model, right?"
Corey laughed prettily. "Heck, no. Too much meat on my bones. You
don't think a fashion model can have this kind of figure and get jobs,
do you?"
The cabbie laughed. "It's a great figure. I'd hire you any day."
The cab pulled into the driveway of Corey's condo, and Corey got
out, handed the man the fare and a generous tip, and with Carol's lips
gave him a little peck on his cheek. "You're trying to break my heart,"
he said as Corey waved good-bye and went to the door. He fished the key
from his pack and fumbled with the lock, fingers numbed by their layer
of Carol skin, as the cab drove off.
Inside, he checked his watch: 9:34. He stopped in front of the hall
mirror and looked at his false face as he began to undress, and gave an
adorable little gasp. There was no trace of Corey in the face. His own
features were gone, the expression the face wore was entirely a woman's
and a stranger's. Corey's self had gazed back so reassuringly at him
three hours before, but now it had been replaced, it seemed, with a
woman's. Carol Lasalle's self. He was becoming Carol Lasalle.
Corey panicked. He all but clawed at Carol's delicate-looking neck
with Carol's delicate-looking hands, and after thirty seconds it opened.
Only then did he tear off the sweatband from her forehead, pull off the
tank top, fumble with and eventually remove the sports bra. He forced
the slit to open down Carol's front to her crotch, and with her fingers
took hold of her head and pulled. The voice-changer popped out, but
Carol's face and scalp came off slowly, as if now unwilling to do without
his flesh and bone underneath. The brown membranes of her eyes were wet
on both sides by the time he had her head off, as if she wept at her own
unmaking. Strangely, Corey's face was barely sore at all. Corey sighed
with relief, a girl's sigh. He was about to scream when with a moment
of pain something shifted in his throat. "Oh, God, don't let it--" he
began, but the voice was his own.
Corey took off the rest of the clothes and then removed the rest
of the suit. Naked, he took the suit to the bathroom and into the
shower, washing it inside and out with some liquid "natural" soap with
a faint mint scent. He let it hang from a towel rack and washed himself.
Once clean, he found himself reaching for the suit again. He
hesitated for a moment, then took hold of it and dragged it into the
tub stall with him and began to get into it. It was only his third time
in the suit, but already he found it easy, almost natural to put on.
After he sealed its neck, he firmly but gently pressed the suit against
his body, proceeding downward slowly from scalp to feet. When he felt
the voice-changer wriggle into his mouth, he promptly inhaled it and
began talking in falsetto; again he felt the odd shift in his throat.
"Hello, Carol," he said aloud in her beautiful soprano voice. "It's
lovely to see you again. To *be* you again." Somehow he didn't feel
foolish saying it.
Although his own body and the suit were both clean now, Corey took
a shower as Carol, exactly as if he were really Carol Lasalle just back
from jogging, rinsing off her sweat. Through the thinner parts of the
Carol suit he could feel the temperature of the water. That faint
sense of touch that the suit provided might as well have been absent:
Corey's sensations were those of a man washing a suit he was enclosed
in, not those of a woman washing herself. Yet he shampooed Carol's hair,
soaped and scrubbed her skin, behaved just if he were really Carol.
He shut off the water, stepped out, dried Carol the way a woman dries
herself, and wrapped Carol's hair in a towel. Anyone watching Corey
showering in the suit would have thought it all perfectly ordinary,
noticed only a tall, very pretty woman taking a shower.
Corey, smiling, turned and looked into the mirror. Carol, naked
but with her hair wrapped in a towel, smiled back, not a hint in her
appearance or expression that she was a shell of a woman, an elaborate,
exquisite mask with Corey inside, or had ever been anyone but herself.
"Oh, shit," she said, revealing her true nature, "what in the fuck
am I doing to myself? I'm a *man*, fuck it! I'm Corey Soler, not
some part-nigger broad!" But Carol's voice, her expressions and poise,
the lovely image in the mirror -- and something deeper inside her than
the male body that made up most of her flesh and all of her bone -- gave
the lie to the words. Inside Carol, Corey blushed, ashamed at what he
had called-- herself?
"I'm not some kinda weirdo transvestite pervert!" said Corey, in
the voice of a pleading Carol. "Dave's going to become this girl, not
me!" None of it rang true. Corey paused and looked at Carol's beautiful
reflection, and Carol herself seemed to take over. She smiled, slowly
and shyly, all woman. "Hi, I'm Carol Lasalle," she said. "I wonder
if Dave will fall in love with me."
Corey screamed Carol's scream and tore at her throat with her own
fingernails. In moments an inch of slit opened. He forced the slit
to open further, all the way down to her crotch, raising welts on his
own skin with Carol's strong nails. The towel over Carol's wet hair
came undone and fell to the floor. Corey pulled Carol's skin from his
head, and the membranes that gave him Carol's perfect brown eyes popped
out painfully, tears on both sides of them. Corey all but turned Carol
inside out in husking himself, and he felt a wrenching pain in his
throat as he lost Carol's voice.
What had made him Carol lay in a heap. He stood next to it, breathing
hard. He put on his glasses, hung his head and looked straight at the
floor. By some odd chance Carol's face, barely distorted, smiled back
at him, mischievous and alluring.
"You fucking bitch," said Corey to the face. "You won't catch me.
You'll catch Dave, and when he's you I'll fuck you till you bleed for
doing this to me!" He plugged the tub and started running warm water
into it, then grabbed the suit, one hand underneath the pile it formed
and the other crushing the Carol face, and threw it in. Corey turned to
face the mirror and barely stifled a scream when he saw his reflection,
for it did not match the body-image established in his mind, the form
that should have been repeated there. His true shape, the young woman
with the high-cheekboned face and frizzy hair and firm breasts and trim
waist and sleek legs clothed in perfect pale-brown skin, had been hideously
transformed into-- a naked man wearing glasses. Transformed into Corey,
in his usual form.
"Oh, shit!" he said aloud. It took most of a minute for Corey to
become comfortable again with his own appearance: looking in the mirror
was bad enough, but looking down and seeing his male chest and crotch
was harder to him to deal with. Then he stamped out of the bathroom and
got dressed in his own clothes, his usual Saturday T-shirt and jeans and
deck shoes.
Corey ate an early lunch: frozen pizza, underbaked. As he finished
he found himself thinking about Carol's date with Dave on Sunday night.
She'll really have to bowl him over, he thought. I should be perfect:
my hair and clothes just right, be a dream woman, someone Dave takes home
and wants to fuck on a first date. I should go out and buy myself some
really sexy clothes that show off my figure, some shoes that fit...get
my hair done one way or another, straightened or properly curled, go to
that makeup place in the mall and have them do a makeover on me--
"Shit!" said Corey, aloud. "That cunt's taking me over!" I'm
thinking like her, he thought, starting to think as if I really am
her, not me at all. If I keep putting her on, by Sunday night there
won't be any me left, just Carol. Maybe I can put her on once, maybe
twice, and still take her off, but sooner or later I'll think I'm
supposed to be her, want to leave her on...and I'll *be* her. Shit. I
gotta speed things up.
It was a little after noon. Corey went to his bedroom, stripped,
and went to the bathroom, where the suit lay in the tub, looking
almost like the prone body of a dead woman. How the fuck did I get
into this? Corey asked himself. Why did I put that thing on at all?
It hasn't been a day yet and I'm already in deep shit -- how come?
It's not like I've ever really wanted to be a girl...okay, it's kinda
fun to see what it's like, but it's not like I'm a fag or a sex-change
case...I'm such a beautiful woman, I mean, she's so beautiful, I love
being Carol-- ah, fuck that...put Dave in her, not me.
He looked in the mirror again. His reflection looked too angular,
too pale, too ugly to belong there. He turned, stepped into the cold
water in the tub, picked up the suit, put it into position, and slipped
his left leg inside.
Part 3
Around one o'clock, Dave was cleaning his house when the phone rang.
He wrung out his mop and picked up the receiver in the kitchen on the
third ring. "Hello," he said.
"Dave?" It was Carol's voice.
"Yeah," said Dave. "Carol, is that you?"
"Uh-huh," said the person on the other end, perhaps more Carol now
than Corey. "Dave, I forgot. I've got something I can't miss on Sunday
night."
Dave sighed audibly. "Oh, that's too bad. I was really looking
forward--"
"How about tonight instead?" Feminine allure.
"Well--" Dave began.
"Short notice, I know," said Corey in his best Carol purr, "but I
really want to see you again, so why not sooner instead of later?"
"All right," said Dave.
"Blue Parrot, seven, tonight" said Corey. "I'll make reservations."
"You'll call back if you can't get them, right?" asked Dave.
Giggle. "Right. 'Bye, Dave."
"'Bye, Carol."
Corey hung up the phone -- Carol's delicate-looking brown fingers
letting the receiver fall into place -- and laughed Carol's laugh. He
meant to make the laugh malicious, but it wasn't. Anyone watching and
listening would have noticed only a tall woman with perfect pale brown
skin and endearingly frizzy hair and lovely voice, naked, talking
pleasantly on the phone, then laughing afterwards in anticipation of a
pleasant evening. Corey picked up the phone book, found the number of
the Blue Parrot restaurant in the white pages, and called.
"Blue Parrot," said a man's voice. French accent, faint but artificial.
"Hello," said Carol's voice with more charm and Jamaican accent than
usual. "I'd like reservations for two, for tonight, at seven. The name
is Lasalle."
"Ah," said the man. "Let me see. Seven might be difficult--"
"Oh, please." Damsel in distress. "It's a special occasion. Just
a little table for two."
After a few seconds, the man said, "Certainly. Yes, seven o'clock."
"Non-smoking?" asked Corey.
"We allow smoking only in a separate lounge, madamoiselle."
"Thank you *so* much," said Corey. "'Bye!" He hung up.
Corey put the touches on his plan for making Dave into Carol. He
got into Carol, chose what she would wear that evening -- pretty much
what he had put on her for going to the drugstore the night before -- and
after putting the clothes on Carol, he made up her face lightly, with
cosmetics supposed to be smudge-proof. Then he practiced undressing as
Carol, taking her off, waiting ten minutes, putting her on again, and then
dressing again once he had completely resumed her form. After the third
try he could do it all in just over sixteen minutes if he simply brushed
Carol's hair out afterwards. The secret, he found, was to stay calm
and open the slit with a constant pull, working methodically from neck
down to crotch. He noticed that even after all the practice, Carol's
makeup seemed none the worse for wear.
After practicing, Corey stood at the bathroom mirror, gazing at the
reflection of Carol. So beautiful, he thought, so fucking beautiful.
He put a fuck-me smile on Carol's face, and his first reaction was that
he was practicing something he shouldn't, that any face he wore shouldn't
smile like that unless he meant it. Ah, fuck, he thought, I'm thinking
like *her* again. Only a few more hours. With a beautiful sigh he began,
slowly, to take Carol's clothes off her form. It was another ten minutes
before he could bring himself to take off Carol herself. It took some
searching through boxes and closets before he was finished preparing for
the evening.
"I'm Ca--, uh, Corey Soler," said Corey to the desk clerk at the
hotel next to the Blue Parrot. "I have a reservation." He set down a
small suitcase with Carol's clothes in it, and an old duffel bag with
Carol's skin wrapped in large damp towels.
The clerk was a tall bleached-blonde woman, thirtyish and a little
shopworn. Somehow her masculine gray suit and blue bowtie, standard
uniform for the hotel chain. made her look more feminine, even adorable.
Corey found himself wishing that he had such a suit to wear -- for Carol
to wear -- that night, and resolved to buy one for herself -- for Carol,
once Carol had taken over Dave's body. "Yes, it's all in order," she said.
"You've got my credit card number already from over the phone, right?"
said Corey.
"Yes, sir," said the clerk. "Now, if you'll fill out this form..."
"Of course," said Corey. He did and gave it to her, and she didn't
seem to find it odd that Corey lived in town. Probably seen enough
people renting rooms for affairs, he thought. Day rooms for lunchtime
fucks, too, I bet.
"Your car's in our garage already?" asked the clerk. "I'll validate
the ticket."
"Thanks." Corey fished it out of his shirt pocket and handed it over.
"Okay," the clerk said a few moments later, "here's the ticket, and
here's your room key. Room five-twenty-eight. Take the nearest elevator,
just at that end of the lobby." She gestured towards it. "Enjoy your
stay, sir."
"Thanks," said Corey, taking ticket and key. "I will."
At twenty to seven, Corey was on the bed, wearing only his glasses,
watching TV. Carol's clothes were laid out next to him, ready for her
to put on, and her skin was softening in the warm water of the tub. His
own clothes were in the overnight bag, and although the duffel bag had only
the damp towels in it, it was zipped up and ready to take away. "Mission:
Impossible" was on the set, and a female member of the team had just
put on a mask and wig and disguised herself convincingly as a Japanese
woman. "How do I look?" asked her voice in synch with the lips of the
real Japanese actress playing the character she was impersonating. Corey
fumbled for the remote control, shut off the set, got up, and went to
the bathroom to get into Carol.
At about four to seven, Corey took a final look in the mirror before
leaving. Carol's hair was up, showing off her lovely slender neck, but
with a few endearing wisps falling in front of her ears. She looked to
him as if she would be cold that evening, her arms and shoulders bare
and her chest half-covered, but inside her Corey was warm. Corey dabbed
perfume behind Carol's ears and at her wrists, put the room key in her
purse, and left, exactly the Carol he wanted Dave to see that night. He
took the elevator down to the level of the garage where he had parked,
walked to the car next to his and pretended to check whether it was locked,
and then went to another elevator that took him to the end of the hotel
lobby nearest the Blue Parrot. Do just what you'd do if this was for
real, he thought, making Carol smile knowlingly; that's the way to make
these things work.
Dave, standing in the waiting area of the Blue Parrot and staring
into space, was brought back to reality by the sound of legs wearing
pantyhose brushing against each other. He looked up and saw Carol's
face smiling at him, an expanse of flawless pale brown above a tiny
strapless dress with almost no skirt to it, perfectly-shaped long legs
in the black pantyhose that had made the noise. "Carol!" said Dave.
"You look magnificent tonight!" The smile on the facebroadened, grew
delightfully mischievous.
"Sorry I'm late," said Corey, making Carol's voice jocularly penitent.
It was about six after seven, and they were in the waiting area of the
Blue Parrot. Carol's lips pressed against Dave's left cheek, and Corey
shocked himself by licking Dave for a split second with just the tip of
his own tongue.
"No problem," said Dave. "Hardly what I'd call late, anyhow. I
told the maitre-d' you'd made the reservations..." A waiter bowed
to them and led them to a table, helped Corey position his fine Carol
buttocks in a chair, gave them menus, and left.
"Sorry about the short notice," said Corey.
"Nothing to apologize about," said Dave. "Carol, you're truly a
fascinating woman and I'd like to get to know you as soon as I can."
A giggle came from Carol's mouth, and the words, "Who knows? You
might get to know me more intimately that you could ever imagine. Maybe
sooner than you'd expected."
"You must be cold, Carol," said Dave. He and Corey had just left the
Blue Parrot after an excellent dinner. Corey had remembered reading,
in some woman's magazine that had been the only thing left to read in
a doctor's waiting room, that men find a healthy appetite in a woman
especially sexy. It had never struck Corey as true, but he had eaten
little that day and was willing to try the suggestion, so an appetizer,
good wine, a generous entree, and a rich dessert had all gone past Carol's
pouty lips that evening and into Corey's stomach.
I could get used to this, thought Corey, what with Dave insisting on
paying for all that. It's past nine-thirty, though. Have to take her
off soon or I never will.
"I'm fine," said Corey, knowing that a real Carol would be shivering
in the brisk evening breeze.
"Are you sure you don't want my jacket?" asked Dave.
Corey shook his Carol head. "The real question is, `My place or
yours?'"
Dave smiled. "Whichever you like."
"Yours," said Corey.
"All right," said Dave. "Taking your own car? Let me tell you how
to get there." He did, and sketched a crude map on the back of another
business card. Of course Corey didn't need it, but he thanked Dave and
with a delicate-looking brown hand slipped the card into Carol's purse.
"Look, I have to drop by my place to get a few things," Corey went
on. "I might take maybe twenty minutes."
"No problem," said Dave. Corey had expected an objection. "I'll
wait for you at my place."
"My car's in the hotel garage," said Corey, as they approached the
hotel's main doors.
"I've parked down the street," said Dave. "So it's goodbye for now."
They kissed, Dave's parted lips against Carol's, and Corey found himself,
or rather Carol's self, putting his tongue into Dave's mouth as far she
could, if briefly. They separated, Dave opened a lobby door for Carol,
and with Carol's sleek legs Corey stepped through.
Back in Corey's room, Carol's hands undid her clothes quickly and
neatly. In moments her skin was bare: Corey felt smug for having thought
of practicing. His sports watch, set to stopwatch mode, was on the hotel
dresser, ready to ensure he spent enough time as himself. With Carol's
fingers Corey massaged her throat, slit open her front, and began to remove
her. When she was just a suit again, he started the watch. He paced for
a few minutes, went to the bathroom and urinated, and paced again, looking
at the watch again and again. Out of caution he waited for twelve minutes
instead of ten before he stopped the watch and slipped into Carol again
with relief. He sealed himself inside her, pressed and prodded her into
her best shape, put her clothes on her, and let down her hair and brushed
it out. He took her lipstick from her purse and touched up her lips,
picked up the bags, and left.
Corey went to the garage and soon found his car. He put the duffel
bag into the trunk but took with him Carol's purse and the overnight bag
with his own clothes, tossing them into the passenger seat. He drove
down to the exit booth. "Ticket, please," said the attendant, a fiftyish
black man.
Corey rummaged in Carol's purse with Carol's fingers. "Oh, dear,"
he said with a little sigh, "I don't seem--"
"Sorry, ma'am," said the attendant, "but--"
"No, wait!" said Corey. He unzipped the overnight bag and felt in
it for his pants -- he was getting used to the gloved feeling of wearing
Carol's skin -- and in a few seconds had extracted the ticket, a bit
crumpled, from a pocket. "Here you are!"
The man seemed almost disappointed that the ticket had a hotel
validation, but he smiled at the beautiful thing he thought a woman's
face and said, "Thanks, ma'am. G'night."
It smiled back. "Good night."
Corey parked nearly a block from Dave's house -- it wouldn't do
for Dave to see his car until Dave was no longer Dave. He took the
overnight bag, got out, and walked. Even clothed in Carol's skin he soon
felt the evening chill. He looked down at the bag. Not the sort of
luggage a real Carol would want to use, he thought. Oh, well, it won't
matter. Soon Carol's forefinger was pressing the doorbell button at
Dave's front door.
Dave was there at once, and noticed the bag. "Planning on spending
the night?" he said, as he welcomed in his dinner companion.
"You never know," said Corey, making Carol's voice seductive. "I
forgot a jacket again -- it really is getting cold." He set down the bag
in the front hallway.
"Something to drink?" asked Dave. "I'm kind of into ports and
sherries these days. Or Madeira, if you'd like."
Corey didn't like sweet wines -- Dave had inflicted a few on him the
previous week -- but as Carol he said, "Sherry would be *lovely*, Dave."
"There's a sideboard in the living room with decanters--" began
Dave, and Carol's giggle was adorable. "Okay, so it's a stereotype.
Half a glass of port for me, and get what you like. Sorry, I have to
use the bathroom."
"Okay," said Corey, as Dave went off. Corey thought that the
speech sounded affected, even rehearsed, but he put that down to Dave's
occasional nervousness with beautiful women. Corey went to Dave's
living room, took out two glasses from a cupboard in the sideboard,
and took from Carol's purse the little vial that had caused him so
much trouble to prepare that afternoon. He had stolen some chloral
hydrate, long the key ingredient of a Mickey Finn, from a chemistry
lab back in college, and it had taken him an hour to find it and make
a little concentrated solution. He popped open the vial and poured
its contents into one glass, then added port from a decanter. The other
glass he filled nearly to the brim with a sherry paler than the one
Dave had given him last week. He hoped it was a dry one.
Dave returned to see Carol's form sitting on his love seat, its long
legs, womanly in their black pantyhose, crossed, its left hand holding
Carol's glass of sweet sherry to its pouty lips. Its right hand gestured
towards the side table where its wearer had put Dave's doped glass of
port. Dave sat next to it, then picked up the glass. Man and false
woman looked at each other with desire, each wanting, though in rather
different ways, the other to be a real version of the imposter. "To
us," said Carol's voice, the delicate-looking hand raising her glass
of sherry.
"To us," Dave repeated, and they sipped their drinks. "Something's
odd about this port," said Dave, and took another sip, more generous.
"What's wrong?" Carol's tones were those of the concerned woman.
The hand wearing Carol's skin raised her glass to her lips and poured
through them into Corey the rest of her drink.
Dave finished his glass, slowly. "Some sort of odd, bitter taste
to it. It shouldn't be there. I just had some port yesterday from
that decanter, and it was fine. I'll try a clean glass and have another
taste."
"Good idea." False heartiness marred Carol's voice. "Here, let me
try some too."
Dave took Carol's glass from the fingers holding it, and watched
her lips form a smile. He went to the sideboard, got another glass,
and filled it halfway with more port. He took a sip. "It tastes just
fine now," he said, filling the other glass. "That's odd." He went over
to the love seat, put his glass on an end table, let the Carol fingers
take the other, and sat, his thigh brushing against the black pantyhose
and the short skirt of the dress. "You know, you are a remarkably
beautiful and desirable woman," said Dave.
A big sip of port went past the pouty lips. To the tongue inside, it
tasted like cough syrup, but the self appreciated the alcohol just then.
"Why, thanks," that self said in Carol's voice. "That's sweet of you."
"It's simply the truth," said Dave, "not a matter of being sweet."
"I'm big and tall enough to be a man." The Carol voice was pitched
low, yet still sounded completely like a woman's. The brown fingers
set down Carol's glass.
"Yet you're a woman," said Dave. "All woman. A beautiful, beautiful
woman..." He caressed the Carol-skin under the stubborn chin, gazing
into the brown Carol eyes. "Do you have any idea of how sexy that is?
Tall, strong, sleek, but all woman."
"You're wonderful, too, Dave." Carol's fingers ruffled his hair.
Dave fell forward onto his lovely guest's lap, apparently unconscious.
Feminine but strong arms took hold of his shoulders and pushed him away
so that he sprawled over most of the love seat. Dave's guest got up
and began to undress, quickly and methodically, enjoying the relief
from taking off those tight sandals, the feel of the nylons on shaven
legs, the caress of the dress' soft fabric slipping against skin, the
bounce of breasts that accompanied unhooking and removing the bra, the
feel against neck and chest of the locket and the links of its chain, of
the earring wires being pulled through the little piercings in the ears--
"Fuck it!" shouted the beautiful naked girl, for she was no longer
Corey, and she knew it. The suit was no longer a suit -- it was a skin,
her skin! She touched the leather of a chair with her left hand: the
double sensation, Corey's own sense of touch and the false skin's faint
sense, had reversed: she was feeling with her own pale brown skin, with
Carol's skin, and Corey's own skin was almost gone, absorbed!
"No! No!" cried the woman who had been Corey and was now Carol.
"I can't have changed! I've got *hours* to go! I'm not Carol!" She
knew she was lying to herself, yet she massaged her slender, womanly neck
frenetically, though nothing happened except that slowly both neck and
fingertips lost what remained of their double sense of touch as her skin
became the normal skin of a woman. She kept trying until her fingertips
were sore and welts were about to appear on the skin of her neck. Then
she burst into tears and sank to the floor.
Carol sat sobbing on the floor of Dave's living room for some minutes.
Eventually she stopped crying and got up. She finished her glass of
port in a gulp. It tasted better than before: either the start of her
change from a disguised Corey to a genuine Carol had altered her tastes
already, or maybe she just needed a drink. She went to the sideboard,
filled her glass to the brim with Madeira, and drained it -- not bad,
she thought. Dry for a Madeira. Think I'll have another. She did.
After that, Carol put down her glass, and went, still naked, to the
bathroom. Her appearance hadn't changed much with the onset of her
metamorphosis -- the crying had had more effect -- but her neck and
fingers and feet seemed more delicate now that she was becoming her real
self instead of Corey in a 2800T suit. She caressed herself, enjoying
her bare fingertips, felt on and feeling what was all her own skin. She
smoothed back her hair, felt the bones of her face -- all real now -- and
then hefted her breasts. As she did, the last feeling of numbness in
them passed away: they were all hers now, and their nipples were at
least as sensitive as Corey's had been. She massaged her abdomen and
proceeded to her crotch, fingering her clitoris, now more sensitive
than the glans of Corey's penis had been. She probed her vagina with
a forefinger. She was not quite all woman there, but the inch or so
of depth was already a great improvement over the moist patch of the
disguised Corey. Her buttocks still had a patch of numbness inside,
but her thighs and legs were apparently all her own, no longer Corey's
covered with padding.
It looks like I'm stuck as Carol now, she thought, stepping back
from the mirror for a fuller view of her new body. She wriggled in
sheer delight at her own beauty. If when I was Corey, anyone'd told
me I'd rather be a pretty woman, I'd have laughed, sneered. But this
is so much *better*. Why? I don't know. It's just right for me, as
if I should have been a woman, this woman, Carol Lasalle, all along.
"I'm Carol Lasalle," said Carol, smiling at her reflection.
Carol went back to the living room. Dave was still in his drugged
sleep. He had slipped mostly to the floor, and with difficulty Carol
hauled him up onto the love seat, one arm under his head and the other
under his knees. Her muscles were weaker, she knew, becoming a woman's.
Corey would have had no trouble shifting Dave. She put her clothes on
again. Everything fitted better, especially her sandals, and she liked
the feel of her clothes on her real skin. She took her purse with her to
the bathroom, where at the mirror she touched up her makeup. That was
easier for her now that her skin was her own, not a mask over some
man's body.
To the living room again. Dave showed no signs of waking. What now?
She could leave, get into Corey's car, and drive to Corey's condo --
she couldn't think of them as her own, or of herself as ever having been
Corey or indeed anyone but Carol. She had Corey's memories, but they
seemed like someone else's, a store of information somehow put into her
mind, perhaps useful but not necessarily relevant to her own life, her
own self.
Carol looked down at Dave's drugged body, feeling pity and something
more. I'm in love with him, she thought. I really am. I think I was
in love with him when I was Corey, but as Corey I couldn't admit it.
Now I'm a woman and I can. Will he love me too? Am I pretty enough?
Is my body too big, too much like Corey's? Dave said he liked it, said
it was sexy that my body is this way. Is my skin too dark? Maybe
Dave really wants a natural blonde. I wish they'd sent the skin of a
snuggly little blonde girl instead so I'd've been someone cute for Dave
to cuddle. I can't tell Dave I used to be Corey. I need to set up a new
identity as me, as Carol Lasalle, but I can't ask him to help me or it'll
all come out. Maybe the New Selves people could help. Call them and
say, hi, I'm a satisfied customer, so how about some help with a new
identity to go with my new body? I'd like to be called Carol Lasalle.
No, I don't want to be a man again, not ever, so don't try to change me
back, okay?
Carol stooped over Dave, took his face in her hands, and kissed
him tenderly on the mouth. "Oh, Dave, I love you so much," she said,
caressing his cheeks with her delicate fingers. Dave didn't react but
simply lay there breathing softly, still too drugged to wake, let alone
take notice. Corey gave him too much chloral, she thought. Poor Dave.
He'll be out for hours and hours.
Carol went to Dave's bedroom, took the woolen blanket from his
double bed, brought it downstairs, and draped it over him. She tucked
it around his neck and under his feet, kissed him again, and went off
to his guest room. She remembered the emergency pills that had come
with the suit, the wonderful suit that was making her herself. Corey
had put them in her purse, planning to give them to Dave once Dave was
in her skin, ensuring that Dave would become her. She giggled aloud at
Corey's foolish idea, his silly plots. It's better this way, she thought.
Dave could never be as *me* as me. She opened the purse, found the blister
pack, popped out the gel-capsules, put them into her mouth, and chewed
and swallowed them. Maybe they'll give me a real cunt by morning, she
thought, and then Dave and I can make love. She took off her clothes,
got into bed, and shut off the lamp on the nightstand. The beginning
of her metamorphosis had worn her out, and in moments she was asleep.
Carol woke to the smell of breakfast: coffee, bacon and eggs, toast,
and so on. She sat up in bed, all but baring her breasts, and saw Dave,
unshaven and looking weary but contented, carrying a tray of food into
the room. "Oh, Dave," she said, "you didn't have to do that."
Dave grinned and set the tray on the nightstand. "Well, it was the
least I could do, Carol. I mean, in each decanter I put about fifty
times the dose you'd get in those emergency gel-caps. Flavorless --
and harmless unless you're in a New Selves suit. Corey didn't have
a chance."
Carol gasped. "You-- you--"
"Set Corey up," said Dave. "Of course I did. Friend transformed
into loving and lovable girlfriend in a matter of hours. He nearly got
me with the Mickey Finn -- serves me right."
"This is crazy, you know," said Carol. "I should be furious with
you. You've robbed me of my body, my identity, made me not want them
back, made me into...*this*." She pressed both hands to her chest.
The feel of her own breasts reassured her. "But somehow it's all
right. It's better than all right -- I'm so happy. I was never so
happy when I was Corey."
"I hope the cab came in handy yesterday morning," said Dave.
Carol shook her head at Corey's naivete. "Corey really didn't have
a chance against you," she said.
"Sorry to have made you into Carol without your permission," said
Dave, "but I think it's a great improvement. Physically you're only
about twenty years old, you're a hell of a lot prettier than Corey,
and much less likely to be stuck at home alone on a Friday night. I
needed a girlfriend, Corey doesn't any more now that he's you, Carol.
Two birds with one stone."
"But I'll make you pay for this," said Carol. "I'll--"
"You'll do what?" asked Dave, stooping over her. "Be honest, Carol.
What do you really want to do to me?"
"Seduce you," said Carol, seizing him, pulling him down to the bed,
and crushing her lips against his.
They nibbled at the cold breakfast afterwards. They had enjoyed
sex even though Carol's vagina had not yet grown enough to accomodate
Dave's penis properly. "Dave," said Carol, "I *am* going to become a
woman entirely, right?"
"The New Selves people say so," said Dave. "They've had nursing
mothers who used to be men. Just a matter of a few months."
"Good," said Carol. "I'm going to love having a baby -- your baby,
Dave -- and nursing it. You know, this is me. The real me. I really
am Carol, Carol Lasalle. I never should have been Corey."
"It's all a cosmic mistake you can forget now, Carol. You're *you*
at last, the woman you should have been. You're my darling Carol."
"I can't thank you enough for rescuing me," she said. "Trapped
in that lonely, nerdy man, stuck with his mind in his body -- it was
horrible! I might never have gotten out!"
"I knew you were in there, Carol, inside Corey, screaming to get
out." said Dave. "I had to get you out of his body, his personality.
Even then I loved you so much, but what could I do until Corey was
out of the way?"
"I love you, Dave," said Carol. They kissed for a long time.
"Happy with your looks, babe?" asked Dave. "We can get you a new
skin and try again."
"I like every part of me," said Carol, "or I will, once it's all
finished. Dave, do you mind that I'm so big and tall? That I'm, well,
strictly speaking, black?"
Dave chucked her under her chin, a chin less stubborn now that she
had almost reached her true form externally and was no longer Corey in a
costume. "Carol, you're the girl of my dreams. You're just who I've
always wanted, in every detail, your hair and skin and size, your voice
and cute accent, your body and soul."
"That settles it then," said Carol, and snuggled against him.
end of part 3, end of story