I saw her at the pool, lying on a towel. Her face was so beautiful I couldn’t help but stare. Her features were certainly Indian, with full lips, a prominent nose and dark skin. Her eyes, black like her long, slightly wild, curly hair, slanted up elfishly. She was not a beauty in the conventional sense: she had quite heavy thighs and legs, and would be considered by most to be a big girl. Hers was an exquisite head attached to a body that was in fashion in a previous century, but I often found myself admiring unusual women. I considered myself a “face man,” and for hers, I could overlook anything. Her face was the type I was always attracted to–it was slightly masculine, the kind of face that would be called “handsome.” Such a face could easily be a mask, especially the kind of mask that a man might wear. I looked at her and knew I would wear that face.
I introduced myself and we talked animatedly for 45 minutes in the shallow end of the pool. I couldn’t hide my attraction to her, and she seemed immensely flattered that a handsome man would be so attentive to her. She was a cultured woman, had money and she talked little about herself despite my discreet prying. She agreed to dinner and I tried to imagine how I was going to ask her for a very special favor. Honesty of a sort was the best route, but I would not tell her the whole story.
Christina, I said, there is another woman. She looked crestfallen, and I saw an emotion cross her face that suggested she had been dumped or used before.
No, I said, it’s not what you think. The woman is inside me. She stared, and prepared to leave. Wait, I said, listen to me. I am not gay–I am very attracted to you, but I have a need to express myself in an unconventional way. Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so are conceptions of what is normal. I have accepted who I am, and I am happy. I am asking you to take a chance. Open up to me, let’s not play games or hide from each other. Are you brave enough to take my hand? Isn’t this what you are looking for–intimacy? She looked into my eyes, and finally nodded. That night I made love to her. It was especially erotic when I imagined that I would soon have that face.
Two days later I entered the shop of a man I knew that rented a Dermachine. There were many of us who had need of its application beyond that which it was intended. In other words, illegal use. Dermachines were originally invented to help people with disfigurements, and later, for cosmetic use. When it became clear that the technology had increased to the point that anyone could change his or her identity completely, the government viewed it as a threat. The small modified machines that were once only licensed to cosmetologists were now sold in department stores for housewives to create beauty masks of their own faces. But these limited devices prohibited anyone but the registered owner from using them and the changes were limited to improving skin texture and slight facial feature enhancement.
The movie industry, of course, was eventually permitted to use the machines for entertainment. Other industries, such as those concerned with espionage and pleasure, were also extremely interested in the artful illusion these machines could provide. The government sanctioned the former for their own purposes. In the latter case, prostitutes were regularly changed into goddesses, movie stars, or world personalities solely for the enjoyment of their patrons. This application was patently illegal but incredibly lucrative. As a result, anyone who desired the service could find it easily.
Mask Mac, as we called him, had been in some shady business earlier in his life and had somehow acquired one of the top level government body machines. For a very reasonable cost, plus the price of the Dermaplastique, of course, one could go into his shop looking one way and leave looking another. The plastique was the difficult part. One could buy the material anywhere in small quantities intended for the commercial enhancers, but if one intended to change the entire body, several pounds might be needed, and the government often traced bulk purchases. An entire black market had sprung up around this material which resembled modeling clay, but was as precious as gold per pound. It could imitate skin, hair, lips, teeth, fingernails, or any part of the body that the Dermachine was programmed to reproduce.
As I waited, I wasn’t entirely sure that Christina would show. I had convinced her how attracted I was to her, but she knew of my other agenda–we both knew I was using her. But she was attracted to me, and I had held out the promise of a special relationship, something that she was seeking. Could she overcome her suspicion, open up to me, and do as I asked? She walked through the door and her warm smile told me my answer.
I kissed her and introduced her to Max. I told him that I wanted to undergo a procedure with Christina, and I was prepared to pay in cash. Max nodded, then asked Christina if she agreed to the procedure. She said that she understood, and she took in the room with a critical, appraising look. Max watched her for a moment and then nodded again. He told her to disrobe in the back and stand in the yellow booth, that he would be right with her.
OK, he said in a soft voice, what do you want? Her head, I said, but a different
body–something more attractive. Right, he said. Do you have the money? I gave him an envelope from my jacket and headed to the back room.
As I disrobed I heard Max with her, apparently reassuring her that everything would be fine. They talked for a few moments very quietly, and I heard Max say “OK–no problem.” He approached my booth and I asked him how Christina was. “She had a concern,” he said, “but we worked it out–don’t worry yourself.” All right, I said, wondering what he was referring to. Give me a couple of minutes before you start, will you? He nodded and left. Before he turned me into her, I had to remove my mask.
I had been on the run for some time, and the face Christina had fallen in love with was not the one I was born with; it was a Dermask. My enemies were getting closer, and I knew it was time to take on another persona. When I saw Christina, the idea of living in her skin for a while felt so kinky that I just knew I would have to try it–even if living as a woman was tougher to pull off in terms of acting. Hell, I was up for the adventure, and Christina’s face would be a pretty erotic thing to wake up to each morning!
I reached under my chin, pinching as I searched for an edge. These things were notoriously difficult to remove, particularly after wearing them for a few months as I had been doing. But they were virtually undetectable, completely comfortable, and anything that your skin could handle, Dermaplastique could handle. In preparation for months, or maybe years of living with this material on my face, I had all of my hair growth halted–I didn’t want to find Howard Hughes looking back at me after a long haul!
I succeeded in worrying loose a small section and picked at it with my fingernail, slowly prying the edge up. Dermaplast was not as flexible as silicone, latex, and other materials that were used earlier in the last century for masks. This curious material was porous, allowing the skin to breathe and sweat, and because it mimicked many of the properties of real skin at the molecular level, it could be also be permanently attached. Burn victims who did not want to wear a mask, as natural as it was, could have Dermaplastique bonded to their skin where it would eventually graft, becoming part of their body. This was not an option I was interested in, of course–flexibility is the name of my game.
Once a Dermask was pulled off, it was usually unusable because it was ripped or stretched beyond its original shape. But because the ‘plastique was so expensive, some people, called re-users, learned to carefully cut their masks off and had them sewn back on with Dermaplastique sutures that would melt into the mask after a week. They could get as many as four long wears out of one machine job.
I was able to finally get several fingers under the edge and I pulled, digging in further as the mask slowly released its grip. Very slowly I peeled it off my face and off my head, and with it, the full head of dark hair that I had combed and moussed for over three months. The feeling of the fresh air on my skin was not unlike that of taking a plastic bandage off a finger after a couple of days–it was uncomfortably cool, but that would be remedied. I tossed my used facemask onto the chair in front of my booth, and I marveled, once again, at the incredible realism of the disguise I had worn. The mole on the right cheek, the rugged chin, the thick eyebrows: I almost felt a pang of guilt that I was abandoning a friend, or more precisely, a part of myself, but I had to move on or I would be caught and neutralized.
I found the F-Kit next to the booth. I peeled the backs off the prosthetic breasts and stuck them over my own nipples, marveling at the visual realism and the jiggle. Although a Dermachine can duplicate all human tissue with absolute realism, it is necessary to fool it into believing you are a woman because the programmed caveats cannot be overridden, and one of the most sacrosanct is that one shall not change sex with a Dermachine. So those of us that break the law must fool the machine by becoming recognizably female before we use it.
The Vagina form is particularly interesting: when in place, I can fuck a male and even feel sexual pleasure due to the placement of the head of the penis in the vagina. I only did this once, and since I am not homosexual, I had to keep watching myself in a mirror just to get through the experience. I found great pleasure staring at my false babe face, so you might say that in a way I fucked myself. I also had to use a spray to lubricate and give the proper odor to my ‘plastique pussy. If a disguiser is reasonably careful, he can go indefinitely and his lover will ever be the wiser. The only reason I did it was to get what I needed to keep running.
Anyway, the machine needs to read a pussy or it won’t operate, and it is important that the penis be situated properly before the machine covers the body with the Derm because you might be stuck with no way to urinate. The V-form is an amazing thing–you just peel the plastic off the back, slide your dick into the hole, press it firmly to your crotch area and presto–you’re a woman!
OK Max, I said, and then I spoke encouraging words to Christina, who sounded strangely calm and neutral. A woman of the world, she surely knew that I would not remain long once I had what I wanted. And as a bored, rich, thrill seeker, she may have also wondered what it would be like to make love to a twin of herself, a sensation that I described as being unique and unlike anything she would ever know. I did not tell her that I would not be taking on her plump ass, fat legs and large breasts. I knew that this would hurt her when she saw my new slim female form, but I would talk my way through it as I always had.
Max began by atomizing the top layer of skin cells all over my body, a procedure that had largely taken the place of bathing with water in modern society. I stood with my feet over the footforms on the floor and held my arms out, fingers outstretched, as I had in so many body transformations before. This would only be the second time I had been a woman, but I had been trained to speak and act female as part of my early training.
The sound of buzzing and then whirring began to get louder and I heard the automated voice warn me to take a large breath and close my eyes. I began to note the strange feeling of Dermaplastique as it was layered on my skin in strict accordance to the model in the other booth. I wondered if she had any distinguishing marks on her body which would be mine soon; her skin would be exactly copied, if not her form. I had not given Max specifics on my new measurements, but I trusted him–he was a pro and would do the job right.
At the prompting of the machine’s friendly voice, I opened my mouth to receive Christina’s teeth, or as close an approximation as my mouth and jaw structure would allow. Now her hair, I thought, as I felt a tickle on my shoulders and the weight on my head grows. I felt added weight on my chest as material was added to my false breasts according to the matrix Max had provided via computer, and my feet told me that pounds had been added elsewhere. How strange, I thought, that in a moment I would be, to everyone around me, a completely different soul than I have been for the last few months. Who am I? A man in a woman’s body, living a false woman’s life? Who am I really? The personalities I have assumed have become part of me, and so I do not know who I am anymore. I will look upon this new face, and it will become me as much as I will become it. But this is my way of life, for if I abandon my disguises, I may loose my life.
I could not hold my breath any longer, but I was past the point of inhaling molecules of ‘plastique. The whirring began to decrease in volume and pitch like a jet turbine switched off. As I began to move my slim woman’s hands over my new body, I knew that something had gone wrong.
Quickly looking down, I confirmed my suspicion: I had Christina’s large breasts, not the moderate sized ones I had ordered, and I felt the ample rump and large thighs with growing anger.
Max! I shouted, where are you? It’s business, he said quietly, and as I stepped out of my booth in shock at his words, I saw Christina step out, my double, a hard smile on her face.
You take me for a simpleton, a stupid rich girl, she said. I’ve had enough of men who would take advantage of me. For now, you will pay in the coin of my choice. Let’s see how you like living in my skin.
I stood in shock, watching as Christina handed a credit chip to Max from her purse on the chair, and then began to dress as if I wasn’t even in the room.
I was afraid to ask what she meant, and my mind refused to acknowledge the meaning of their transaction.
Christina, I said, beginning to panic as it dawned on me, what have I done to you that you would be so upset with me? What about our plan to be together tonight? She ignored me. Very well, I said, and paused for effect. No response. I am sorry I offended you. Can we talk, please? She picked up her purse as she slipped into her calf high boots, and looked at me critically. How strange, she said, to hear a man’s voice coming out of my mouth. She smiled and walked over to me, and hefted my large breasts in her hands as if weighing two melons. I won’t be sorry to loose these, she said. I looked up, again confused. I’m going in for surgery tomorrow–don’t look so surprised– why do you think I came here, to vacation? By Thursday I will look quite different–more the ideal screw you playboys like. But you, you will look like this for a long time!
I knew then that I was trapped–she had paid Max to seal me in at the molecular level, and I did not have the credits to undergo the process that would reverse it. Max couldn’t help me, even if I threatened his life, as he did not have that technology available to him. I didn’t have the money to seek a professional, and I didn’t know how long it would take to raise it, especially since I wouldn’t find it very easy to charm for a living as I had always done. I was definitely worried that Christina’s skin would graft to my body before I could get it off.
She picked up my discarded mask from the chair and examined it. Do you even remember what you really look like? I stood, stunned, unable to speak. I will keep this to remember you by, she said, but I know you won’t forget me. She turned on her heel and swinging the mask in a careless fashion, walked out without another word.
In the mirror before me stood an overweight, dark skinned Indian woman with a beautiful face. And as far as the world is concerned, I thought, that’s who I am from now on. The good news is that no one will suspect me to look this way. The bad news is that I am stuck in this thing, and my only option if I run into trouble is to layer a disguise on top of this one.
Max walked in with some clothes and dropped them at my feet. Compliments of the house, he said, and walked out of the room.