Wearing Jennifer’s Face
By Vicki Mock
There are eight of us enjoying a dinner party at Jennifer’s house, including my girlfriend and me, and we have been drinking. Jennifer and I have been trading warm smiles–there has always been an attraction between us. Jennifer is older than me, a widow for several years, and very attractive.
I wander down the hall seeking the bathroom and end up in her bedroom. I see something that really takes my breath away: On the bureau, covered by a plastic bag, is an amazing mask of Jennifer’s head. I pick it up and examine it: it looks so erotic with the mouth half open and the eyes empty. Jennifer suddenly strolls in–she clearly followed me–and tells me that her husband made for himself from a cast of her head and it is real in all details. She can tell I am fascinated by it, and she takes it off the pedestal so I can have a closer look. As I hold it playfully up to my face, she tells me, almost orders me, to try it on, and moves swiftly to put it on me as I protest weakly.
My friends walk in and watch in amusement. With some difficulty Jennifer stretches the mask onto my head, as I stop protesting and help her. The mask is made of a material that is squishy like a silicone breast and quite stretchy–it fits me tightly but it is not uncomfortable. The nostrils extend into my nose, and the lips of the mask fit over mine giving me Jennifer’s soft, feminine lips. I touch the mask and feel the thickness at the cheekbones. It reminds me of the way my sense of touch is numbed when wearing a condom–this is like wearing a condom over my head. But unlike a condom, the opening of the mask is as small and my head is large. It turns me on that I cannot take off this mask without difficulty.
I go to the mirror, glad that my penis is bound down in tight underwear. I look in the mirror at my reflection, now wearing Jennifer’s face, her dark curly hair cascading around her face, my eyes shadowed in her eye sockets, the nose prominent but feminine, the slightly cleft chin, the lips soft and well defined. Come on, she says with enthusiasm sharpened by alcohol, let’s dress you up so you look the part. I look at my friends smiling: little do they know that I have no choice, that I have dreamed of this. My heart pounds with lust and excitement, and I wish the pleasure of this moment could go on forever. My head is trapped in Jennifer’s skin–it holds me firmly, with no hope of removal, I imagine, and that is how I want it.
Jennifer shoos my friends away, insisting I must dress the part and really surprise everyone, so I follow her into the spare bedroom to try on some things she has that should fit me. She locks the door, unbuckles my belt, and energetically pulls my pants down, immediately noting my state of arousal. She comes to me and smoothes the mask with her hands as if admiring it. There is a price to pay for this, she says, and she asks if I am willing to pay it. I cannot believe her boldness, and how the situation has escalated from the moment I discovered the rubber mask in her bedroom. Now I am wearing the mask and my pants are around my ankles.
She removes all of my clothes and unbuttons the top of her dress, freeing her soft breasts. We stand and kiss passionately in the middle of the room. I imagine how this must look: I am a man with a woman’s face, and a woman’s hair. I open my eyes and reflect that kissing her while wearing her own face is too incredible to describe. I wonder how she feels about seeing her face looking back at her. Her soft rubber lips part as I moan softly, and I feel her hair touch my neck and shoulders as I shake my head and look at the ceiling in ecstasy.
We know we cannot go on any longer–the others are expecting us–so she quickly disengages her lips and finds me some clothes in the closet that she says her husband had once worn to a Halloween party in the 70’s. I see a closet full of women’s clothes, and I begin to wonder if he was a transvestite.
She pulls on opaque latex panties and two pairs of nylons, but not before she impulsively takes me in her mouth for ten incredible seconds. My penis is now a bound and gagged prisoner, sacrificed to complete the illusion of a mock Jennifer. A tight nylon and spandex girdle with pads is wriggled on to give me hips and thighs and the double mounds of a sexy woman’s ass, then a tight, orange vinyl skirt with laces in the back, a bra stuffed with large, jiggly prosthetic breasts, and a constricting black turtleneck top that completely hides the bottom edge of the mask. The go go boots in white are tight but I can walk in them, and the orange and plaid Beatles cape is tied with a cord in front. The press on nails and false eyelashes seem a bit over the top for this simple charade, but I acquiesce. I don some black leather gloves that give my hands a feminine look. I cup my boobs, so firm yet soft on my chest, and my gloved hand feels the tight nothingness between my legs. She puts pink blusher to highlight my prominent cheekbones and lipstick on my soft lips.
The mirror shows a fashion throwback to the 60’s, something like a whorish Emma Peel, but a woman, a convincingly real woman. The mask is mobile, thin enough in places to allow facial expression: smiles, grimaces, kisses, and the languid, half lidded, false eye lashed, pouting look of lust. I am ready to explode, but I am contained because I cannot manually stimulate myself further. I am in a holding pattern of pleasure: the swishing movement of the long hair, the sound of the nyloned legs brushing as I walk, the clip clop of the little boots on the hardwood floor, the feel of my large, firm ass under the short vinyl skirt, the feel of my gloved hands as they touch the rubber illusion that so artfully hides my own face. My passion burns as brightly as a torch in the night.
As we prepare to leave the room, Jennifer slyly smiles and tells me she knows my secrets. She makes it clear that I owe her and she will collect very soon. Say yes, she demands, say it like a woman would. Yes, I say, in as close an approximation of her breathy female voice as I can, yes.
Everyone is knocked out by my appearance as Jennifer walks me by hand through the party, introducing me with a big grin as her big sister; I really do look like her sister. My girlfriend is impressed and playful, watching with amazement and something else I can’t read. In front of the group she acts like she wants me to get out of this Jennifer disguise and be her boyfriend again, but I see she is enjoying it. I get catcalls from the guys and they grab my boobs and ass like drunken construction workers.
As we prepare to sit down to dinner, I become embarrassed by the constant attention and declare to Jennifer that it is time to take it off. She is adamant that I remain in the mask, and chastises me for making her go through all that trouble only to take it all off after a few minutes. I protest that it wasn’t entirely my idea, but she makes me promise, in front of everyone, my most solemn promise, all kidding aside, that I will not take off the mask until she says so. I agree, smiling a good approximation of her smile. She makes me promise to speak like her while I am wearing her face, and I playfully agree in my breathy voice. My heart pounds, and I cannot hold on much longer to the wave of pleasure I am riding.
The party is winding down. I have caught my reflection in the mirror many times and each glance grants me a jolt of erotic pleasure as I see Jennifer’s face instead of mine. I would eagerly make love to any woman who looked like I look tonight. My girlfriend seems a little shocked when I grab her and give her a deep kiss with Jennifer’s face on. I suggest, with alcohol on my breath, how erotic it would be to make love to her wearing this mask; it has been my fantasy, I tell her, to pleasure a woman while disguised as a woman. She says nothing, ignoring the remark, but I can see that she is thinking, considering, maybe fantasizing about it as she stares at me later.
Jennifer’s soft rubber lips have blown the guys kisses, her mouth has spoken in her breathy, husky voice, and she has minced around the room in little white boots shaking her wide hips and bottom in a parody of femininity, but I have begun to tire of it a little. I am still turned on but the raging fire has been reduced to white-hot coals. As the last couple leaves only four of us in the house, I suggest that I perhaps I should take off the mask and clothes so we can go home. With a nasty smile, Jennifer declares that she has not given the word yet, and will not give it.
I am tired, I am hot and I chafe, so I tell her it has gone on long enough. She reminds me I gave my solemn oath, and with loud laughter at his drunken cleverness, her escort tells me I am going to bed with Jennifer whether I like it or not. Getting a little angry at this attitude, I pull off the leather gloves and reach under the turtleneck for the edge of the mask. I will peel it up and stretch Jennifer’s face off of my own, even though I wish to continue wearing it. Then, after removing it, I will ask if I can borrow it for the night, just for laughs. In my heart I want to keep it on, but I must take a stand or appear to like my predicament too much.
I search for the edge of the mask with no luck, and ask my girlfriend for help. She laughs and tells me a promise is a promise. I go to the mirror and pull the turtleneck down so I can see the edge. I see it is stuck tight to my skin, and try as I might; I am unable to roll or peel it loose. I tug at the hair, the face, the neck, but Jennifer’s face is mine for now. The three of them laugh at my plight, and I now see that my they all knew that I would not be able to remove this thing at the end of the evening–Jennifer told them, but not me.
Looks like you’ll get you wish, my girlfriend whispers seductively as she drives us home. I pull down the cosmetic mirror and run my gloved fingers over the false face that is adhered to my own. I smile as I imagine making wonderful love tonight, sleeping masked, waking to the morning light with long hair across my pillow, and eating breakfast in a bathrobe wearing Jennifer’s face. Before we leave her house, Jennifer secretly makes it clear that I will only be able to remove the mask when I have paid her back in a very special way. She turns and announces so all can hear her: Tomorrow I will release you–I will call and tell you how to do it. But her wink tells me that I must come to her house, to see her in her own bedroom.
In the succeeding weeks, Jennifer shows me the contents of her closet in the spare bedroom. I learn that in that closet lives a woman who was imprisoned inside of me until that night at Jennifer’s house. Jennifer receives more than she bargained for, but the woman inside of me grows stronger and is more and more reluctant to go back into the closet at the end of our sessions together.
I imagine this fantasy life will grow in strength until finally, one day; Jennifer will be surprised to see herself walking down the street wearing tight jeans that show off her ample ass. She’ll have bouncing breasts beneath a red silk blouse, and she’ll wear red heels to match her nails and the red lipstick on her soft rubber lips. The corners of her ample mouth will curl in a confident smile as she walks, hips swaying, ignoring the urgent pleas from the woman standing on the sidewalk. Perhaps, I think, I will never tire of wearing Jennifer’s face…