From alt.sex.stories.tg Tue May 14 16:41:37 1996 Message-ID: 224302Z29041996@anon.penet.fi Path: fu-berlin.de!zib-berlin.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi ~Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg ~X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories.tg Organization: Anonymous forwarding service ~Reply-To: an563567@anon.penet.fi ~~~Lines: 385
"You sure you want to go through with this, Al?" asked Vickie.
"Yeah," said Al, automatically.
"My mother let me watch her do it, showed me how -- but I was only ten, remember," she said. "Nearly eighteen years ago. I've never done it myself, and Mom's just disappeared again, so I can't get her to help. Last time she was away for nearly three years. We could wait till she gets back, but--"
"We've been through all this!" Al looked petulant. "Oh, hell. Sorry, Vickie. I just want this so badly. I've got no right to be impatient, and you've got every right to try to talk me out of it."
"Just reminding you of the drawbacks," she said. "Look, I can just shut up and we'll go ahead with it."
"No," said Al. "You're the one taking the trouble -- and the risks, I think. Go on."
"I'll keep it short," said Vickie. "Never did it myself, don't know if it works between a man and a woman, don't know how much it'll hurt you, not sure what happens to you if it fails. I think I'll be safe, except if it fails I'll have to dispose of your remains -- not that big a risk, really. They won't look like remains. Want the rest?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"If it works, I'll have an identical twin sister," said Vickie. "Well, actually she'll be a mirror image, fingerprints and all, but some identical twins are. Physically she'll be exactly a mirror image, down to every scar and flaw. She'll also be twenty-eight years old, right hip arthritic already like my left hip, painful menstruations like mine, nasty fever blisters like the ones I keep getting. She'll get a couple of bad colds every year, bad flu if she forgets her flu shots, yeast infections again and again. She'll be skinny like me, 33A breasts, about five-five. When she gains weight it'll all go to her butt. Nice long silky black hair like mine, already with some white hairs in it. She can cut and dye it if she likes, but if Mom is any indication it'll go white in another ten years or so, and really thin out as she gets older. Baldness runs in both sides of the family, and that's what they call female-pattern."
"I can live with all that," said Al.
"I don't even know if there'll be a `you' to live with it," said Vickie. "The result might be a soulless person that looks like the woman I see in the mirror and thinks it was once you."
"I'll never know the difference," said Al.
"I might know," said Vickie, "and I'd have to pretend I didn't. And even if it all works, we've got a twenty-eight-year-old woman with no past, my bad health, my looks, and your personality. Not too good."
"But you're beautiful!" said Al. "She'll be beautiful too."
Vickie smiled. "Thanks, but I'm not. Okay, I have a cute face and okay hair and I'm not fat, but my personality is the only thing that really makes me attractive. She won't have it, and I don't think she can develop one like it. She'll have yours."
"She'll have your brain," said Al. "Won't that do it?"
"It might help," said Vickie, "but I don't think so. The woman my Mom did it for was an old college friend of hers. Until I was five she lived near us and I saw her a lot, then she moved away and visited a couple times a year. I got to know her pretty well. Then after she got divorced she came to stay for a few weeks, and that's when my Mom changed her into her own twin sister. Afterwards I could never mistake her for Mom. She never had anything like Mom's expression on her face. She had Mom's brain but not Mom's personality at all. Has, I should say -- she's still alive and well."
Pause. After a while Al said, "I don't care. I hate being this man I'm supposed to think of as myself. I'm really a woman. I was born a little girl disguised as a boy. As far back as I can remember I've wished I could peel off that boy costume someone glued me into, let the real me get out."
"Life's no better for a woman," said Vickie. "Okay, so I've never been a man, but you've got a Master's degree, a good career at a good company, a lot of other companies that'd hire you with your record. You're so handsome, a big blond guy, all muscle and health, and you're only twenty-four. You want to throw all that away?"
"It'll be worth it," said Al.
"You'll be a sickly woman, four years older, with a personality used to -- as you think of it -- playing male. A personality that can't make the most of the run-of-the-mill good looks you'll have. No record of being educated, no resume' -- no official existence. We'll have to make up some story about your being my long-lost twin."
"Yes. So things will be harder," said Al. "That's all right. Vickie, you look kind of like the real me, the woman I see in my mind's eye when I think of myself. I'm really a brunette like you, about your height, with the same shape of face."
"Probably younger and prettier and curvier," said Vickie. "Sexy inside and out. She'd probably a femme fatale, if I know you. I'd make you into that `real you' if I could. I can't. Sorry. It's a mirror-image copy of my body, with your self in it, or it's no change at all. Maybe you can fine-tune it with plastic surgery, make a new personality for yourself." Al nodded. "Okay, Al, I can't talk you out of it. When do you want to start?"
"Now," he said. "Can we, Vickie? I kind of, uh, burned my bridges."
"That briefcase is full of cash, maybe some gold, right?" she asked. He nodded. "It's all yours. You'll need every penny."
"I can--" he began.
"Not another word," she said. "Just one more thing. I think you'll be conscious in some way through most of it. It may hurt. Mom's friend didn't talk about that part afterwards, so I don't really know."
"Let's get it over with," said Al.
Al got out of the shower stall in Vickie's guest bathroom. Vickie had had him scrub himself clean, providing a loofah sponge, a stiff brush, and a bar of unscented castile soap. He picked up one of her beach towels and dried himself thoroughly, rubbing his short hair with a second towel. He looked down at his hairy chest, his genitals. Last time I see these, he thought, and he felt his penis start to erect. He waited a minute and tried not to think of seeing Vickie's image in the mirror, but he couldn't and his erection remained. He shrugged and walked to the bigger bathroom next to Vickie's bedroom.
Vickie was there, waiting for him next to the antique bathtub, cast-iron covered in porcelain, one of the longest tubs Al had ever seen. He'd remarked to her once that it was dangerous, that even a six-footer like himself could fall asleep in it, slide into the water, and drown. Now it was half-full of green liquid.
Vickie noticed Al's erection. "Little guy agitated over being turned into something else?"
Al blushed. "Well," he said, "this is like my sex fantasies come to life, you know."
"Sure," she said. On a small wooden table next to the tub were a long, wide-bored soda straw and the sort of nose clip used by inexperienced swimmers. Vickie picked them up. "Now, you're going to get into the tub slowly -- don't splash any of that liquid around, now -- and submerge yourself. Breathe through the straw. Think you'll need the nose clip?"
"I'd better use it," he said. "Well, Vickie, I guess this is the time to say goodbye."
"Good luck, Al," said Vickie. "If all goes well you'll end up as my long-lost twin sister Amanda. If not...this probably is goodbye." She gave him a brief hug.
Al couldn't think of anything to say. He clipped his nostrils shut, put the straw in his mouth, and got into the tub. Without difficulty he sank to the bottom and started breathing through the straw. He opened his eyes. Through the green liquid he could see Vickie looking down at him. His erection subsided. He felt drowsy and his skin seemed numb. He tried to shut his eyes, but he couldn't. A moment later he found that he was paralyzed. Vickie, he saw, was putting on one long, thick, rubbery-looking glove; then he went blind. All his body's senses shut down. His mouth went slack and the liquid began to come in. With her gloved hand, Vickie plucked out the straw, plucked off the nose clip. Al couldn't feel them being removed, but something had replaced his body's lost senses. Somehow he could tell what was going on around him, perceive what Vickie was doing, what was happening to his body. The liquid filled his mouth but he was too detached to care. His body swallowed a lot of the liquid, but mostly it went into his lungs, forcing out the air. He "saw" that air bubbling to the surface. He stopped breathing, and sensed his heart making a few insincere contractions before it stopped beating. Yet he was still conscious, his new sense of perception keeping him aware. He realized that his body existed as an object in the liquid, that the liquid was changing it in some way, and that he was somehow still associated with it, but what faint sensations he felt didn't seem to come from it.
"So far, so good," said Vickie. "I'm sure you can't hear me, but you might sense what I'm saying." Al could. "Unfortunately I can't be sure. I can't tell if you're comfortable or detached or what." She picked up a spray bottle and, holding her gloved hand over the sink (a modern, unremarkable sink), sprayed the glove thoroughly before she rinsed it and took it off. "Neutralizer. I don't want any of that green liquid on myself."
Vickie dried the glove on a hand towel and put it aside. "Now we wait," she said. "The green color of that liquid has to vanish entirely. I put in more than I had to, I think, but a bit extra won't hurt. It should take a few hours. I don't know how time works for you in that state. Try to fall asleep."
Al's self imagined being asleep, and gradually lost consciousness.
About three hours later Vickie was satisfied that the green color was gone. She had had lunch, a stomachful of high-carbohydrate and high-protein "weight-gain" drink of the sort favored by bodybuilders. Not the sort of bodybuilding we're up to here, she had thought, but maybe it'll help me get through this. Then she'd taken a shower herself, put on a T-shirt and short shorts, checked the liquid, waited, checked again, and waited again.
"Okay, Al," said Vickie. "Showtime." Al's self had woken up the last time she came in to check, but Vickie had no way to know that. It sensed that what had been Al's body had changed, and although Vickie had explained what that change would be, the self was still uneasy. "This is going to be strange for you, but just relax. Go to sleep again if you can."
Al's self tried to sleep, but couldn't. Vickie pulled the stopper out of the drain, and the liquid, now colorless and only a little more viscous than water, drained out. Then she replaced the stopper and filled the tub, gently wiping the rubbery material that had been Al's skin. She drained the tub again, put back the stopper, and said, "Al, if you're not asleep yet, this is a good time to try again." Al's self tried again but couldn't.
Vickie put one hand to either side of what had been Al's head and squeezed it. Its sides gave in readily, and a homogenous material resembling soft chocolate pudding oozed freely from its mouth, nostrils, eyesockets, and ears. It had no smell, wasn't sticky, and on the whole was inoffensive stuff. She squeezed out as much as she could from the head, flattening it. With difficulty she rolled the changed body on its left side and began working more of the brown goo out of it through its anus. She massaged it from the buttocks and proceeded up the torso, pushing out more and more. When the chest and abdomen were almost empty she milked the arms and legs methodically. Within an hour the skin was almost empty.
Al's self had been watching all along, horrified at first, but soon bored. It felt no pain, no pleasure, nothing at all as Vickie worked through and out of its orifices what had been Al's flesh and bone and internal organs.
"Hope you're okay," said Vickie. She got up, went to the sink, and rinsed brown goo from her hands. "Don't worry, there's plenty extra," she said. She dried her hands and went out, returning in a few minutes with a stack of three five-gallon plastic buckets, the sort used for paint or bulk food, and lids to match. "I think three should be enough," she said. "I certainly don't weigh a hundred twenty pounds, and these will hold at least forty pounds apiece. Oops, I forgot." She left again and came back with a large plastic scoop that could hold perhaps a quart.
Vickie unstacked the buckets and began to fill them, scooping the brown goo from the tub. She put the lid loosely on each when it was full, and after filling the last she rinsed her hands and sealed them all. "I need a break," she said. "This is harder work than I thought." She left the skin and the excess goo in the tub, lowered her shorts and panties, and sat at the toilet. After that she stowed the buckets at the far end of the bathroom, under the bottom shelf of the linen closet, shoving them along the floor and into place one at a time because they were too heavy to lift.
After a catnap and a snack, Vickie went back to work. It was about four in the afternoon. She turned the tub's faucet on full, washed the excess brown goo down the drain, and rinsed off the Al skin. She stripped off her clothes, stuffed the skin into a bundle, and with difficulty lifted it and carried it to the shower in the guest bathroom. Her left hip began to ache under the strain. Al's self went along with the skin. She dropped it into the stall with a sigh of exhaustion, massaged her hip for a few moments to little effect, and left. A few minutes later she was back, holding a kitchen knife with a very sharp six-inch blade. Al's self panicked, but of course it could do nothing. "Don't worry," said Vickie. "You won't even have a scar."
She unbundled the skin and found its buttocks. She put the point of the knife at the top of the skin's anus, and with one sure stroke slit the skin up the back, making an opening a foot long. "I think that'll be enough," she said. "You're pretty elastic." She put the knife in the sink, went into the stall, and turned the water on. Al's self went unconscious.
Vickie picked up the skin by the buttocks, letting as much of its weight as possible stay on the floor of the stall, and making use of the slit began to rinse it out. She put an arm up the slit and scooped out more goo. As she removed more and more, the skin became far lighter, easier for her to handle. With her entire right arm through the slit, she managed to work her hand into the skin's right hand. She closed her fingers and pulled, turning the arm inside-out. The whole inside of the skin was lined with a smooth, opaque, white material, as elastic as the rest of it, but very tough. By doing the same with the left arm, then likewise with the head and legs, she soon had the skin inside-out. It looked like a full-body suit of white latex.
Vickie held its shoulders to her own. It had shrunken. It was elastic enough that Al, if his body were still a man's body rather than the suit and some brown goo, could have worn it comfortably, but it was now small enough to cling to her, as she noted wryly, like a second skin. Its inside-out penis protruded, and Vickie giggled as she pushed it in to form a deep dimple. She stepped out of the shower stall for a moment to put the skin on a towel rack, then went back in and washed herself with the same soap and brush Al had used.
Drying the skin was a nuisance. It still had Al's hair -- far from all of it was on the head -- so Vickie put the white side in again and went to work with towels and hair dryer. At last she was done, and she turned it inside-out again so that it once more looked like white latex.
Vickie got out from under the sink a large jar than had once held cold cream but was now full of the cream she'd made last week, electric blue so that it would show up well on her skin. She rubbed a generous layer all over herself, working it into the hair on her head and at her crotch. She rubbed more into the inside of the white suit, especially the inside of its back: she figured she'd probably missed a few spots.
Vickie took hold of either side of the slit in the suit, and put her head inside. Then she slipped her arms in, past her head, and wriggled in. The slit stretched but the suit did not tear at all. She managed to get her fingers into its fingers, and that made it easier to work her head into its head. Once the features of the face were matched to hers, what had been Al's eyelashes kept poking her in the eyes, and what with gloved fingers and oozing blue cream it took her some minutes to push them out of the way. At length the upper half of the suit was more or less in place, and by sprawling on the bathroom floor and doubling up her knees, Vickie just managed to get her legs through the slit. When she finally had each toe inside the proper toe of the suit, she pushed what had been the skin of Al's penis into her vagina with a gloved forefinger. It's only the third time it's been there, she thought. From the medicine cabinet she got out some paper surgical tape and with one vertical piece and half a dozen horizonals taped shut the slit in the suit's back.
Vickie looked at herself in the mirror. I look like a rubber fetishist's dream girl, she thought. She was covered head-to-toe in what looked like a suit of white latex, eye and nostril and mouth holes just large enough and apparently placed perfectly, ears in their own separate rubbery sheaths distinct from the rest of the head, latex lining fitting into her vagina, all looking as if custom-made on a cast of her body. Yet she was uncomfortable. It was hot inside this suit of inside-out changed skin. The metamorphosis from skin to suit had made Al's hair into something coarser, like stiff plastic bristles, and it chafed wherever it was, from armpits to crotch to forehead to chest. The razor stubble under the chin was the worst.
Vickie went to her living room and turned down the thermostat as low as it would go. With a clank the central air kicked in. She hadn't had to use it for a while, just as well because she doubted she could afford to run it much: inheriting this house from her aunt had been a mixed blessing at best. She went to the kitchen and drank a tall glass of cold water, but she still felt hot. She got out the weight-gain powder she'd had for lunch, put a few scoops into the jar of her blender, added cold milk and ice cubes, and made a thick shake she had to eat with a spoon. Dinner, she thought, as she ate, swallowing the stuff before it melted. What next?
"We just have to wait," said Vickie aloud, some minutes later. She was sitting on the sofa in her living room, staring at the turned-off television. Al's self was still unconscious and didn't hear, even though it was intimately associated with the suit that had been Al's skin, and the suit was of course in intimate contact with Vickie's body. "I don't know how long I have to wear you. You're getting more comfortable, and that's not just because the air conditioning's on. You're definitely starting to change. I just don't know how long it'll take. I might have to leave you on overnight." She found the remote control and turned on the TV.
After a few minutes of channel-surfing she decided on a show, but she was too excited with what she was doing to pay attention to it, to let herself be distracted. She muted the sound, got up, and went to her bedroom. In the back of the dresser drawer where she kept her panties was a vibrator covered in molded, tinted rubber that made it look like a set of male genitals, almost comically large. She turned it on and it buzzed halfheartedly for a second, then stopped. She peeled off its rubber skin, the only way to get at its battery compartment, and took its innards to the kitchen. After some rummaging in the pantry she found a package of alkaline cells, replaced the old ones and threw them in the kitchen trash. The working part of the vibrator was again exactly that, and Vickie was about to switch it off and put it back in its skin when she recalled that she had a similar skin inside her vagina already. "Well, Al," she said, "this is your last pity fuck, I guess," and slipped the buzzing thing inside what had been the skin of Al's penis. The whole business gave Vickie what she considered a naughty thrill, and she lay on the couch and within minutes had a prolonged orgasm. Al's self came half out of its unconscious state, feeling a little of the pleasure as well, and then drifted back. The stripped vibrator seemed loose inside her, and Vickie shut it off, took hold of its end, and probed. The suit material inside her had changed from the shape of Al's penile skin to the shape of her vagina, lining it neatly, and as far as she could tell was extending past her cervix to line her uterus as well.
Vickie was uncomfortably hot again, but she got up and took the innards of the vibrator to her bedroom and put them back into their rubber skin. She switched the vibrator on again and re-inserted it. Maybe orgasms speed up the changes, she thought. Seems like it. It's more fun than watching TV, anyway. At length she had another orgasm, shorter and not as pleasurable, which Al's self didn't feel at all. She was hot enough to worry about heatstroke, and the suit was snug against her. Vickie had expected it to be lubricated by sweat and the blue cream, and she realized that if it clung to her so closely, its metamorphosis must be going very well indeed. On the other hand, she was hot and had to urinate badly. She got up and went to the guest bathroom.
Without thinking about the suit, Vickie sat down and started to urinate. Only when she heard her urine hit the water in the toilet did she realize that the suit now had the appropriate hole. "You're doing great, Al," she said. "Only you need a cold shower, you sex maniac." Al's self was still unconscious, though. Vickie got into the shower and ran it cold for some minutes, ran it until she was about to shiver. Then she shut it off, got out, and patted the suit dry.
Vickie had wondered what she would do with the rest of the evening, but after the shower, fatigue set in. Despite her lingering discomfort in the white suit and her worries about Al, she found herself yawning, fighting to stay awake though it was not yet eight-thirty. She closed the curtains in her bedroom, got into bed, turned off the lamp on her nightstand, and lay down. Then, as had happened to her perhaps twice before in her life, she felt herself falling asleep.
Vickie dreamt. She was fond of telling people that she never did, but in fact she dreamt a great deal but rarely recalled anything on waking; one dream she had that night she would remember clearly. In it she was talking with Al. "How's the change going?" asked Al; he was his usual self, but dressed in clothes suitable for a well-paid young businesswoman yet tailored to his male body: peach-colored linen suit with slacks rather than a skirt, white silk blouse, low-heeled beige pumps showing a little flesh-toned nylon stocking. In the dream Vickie told him that things seemed to be going fine, and he shouldn't have wasted his money on having that suit made until he had become a real woman. The Al in the dream smiled and melted into a mirror-image copy of Vickie, clothes shrinking to a perfect fit, and Vickie complained that those really weren't her colors.
end of part 1 of 2
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From alt.sex.stories.tg Tue May 14 16:41:38 1996 Message-ID: 225345Z29041996@anon.penet.fi Path: fu-berlin.de!zib-berlin.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi ~Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg ~From: an563567@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories.tg Organization: Anonymous forwarding service ~Reply-To: an563567@anon.penet.fi ~Date: Mon, 29 Apr 1996 22:46:24 UTC ~Subject: Mirror Image (TG, magic) 2/2 re-post ~Lines: 418
When Vickie woke it was morning. The air in her bedroom was cold but she was warm and comfortable. She sat up in bed and looked down at her chest. She was still in the suit, of course, but it was merely snug against her, not clinging almost as if glued, and it didn't chafe as she moved. She got up out of bed and went to the bathroom, the nearby one with the big bathtub.
Vickie looked in the bathroom mirror: nothing new, apparently. With her white-covered right hand she took hold of the left corner of the suit's mouth and peeled it back, easy though the suit was snug on her face, and saw that the inner side of the suit matched perfectly the appearance of her real lip and skin underneath. She let go, smiled, and said aloud, "Well, I guess you're done." The Al self was still unconscious and didn't hear. Vickie sat at the toilet and urinated before going on.
Vickie reached back, found the end of a piece of the surgical tape that closed the slit, and pulled. Most of the tape came off, and in a few moments she had removed it all. With rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls she removed the residual gum.
Taking the suit off was surprisingly easy. Although it fitted Vickie perfectly now, rather than simply appearing to, it was more elastic and its inside slid easily against her skin. She found it easy to work her buttocks out of the slit she had cut in the suit. Then she sat on the floor and shifted her weight, ending up on her back, and easily pulled the suit's legs from her own. She stood, put both hands to her crotch, and without trouble pulled out the thin sac lining her vagina and uterus. She pulled the head off her own, worked her hands out of the suit's and into its arms, and in minutes she was naked again.
Removing the suit had been so easy for Vickie that she had not had to turn much of it inside-out. What she could see of the inside looked like a paler, almost bloodless version of her own skin. A few minutes of putting hands inside limbs and head, then pulling, and she found herself holding a copy of her entire skin, or rather a mirror image. The mole on her left shoulder was on the copy's right, the fingerprints were all mirror images of her own, the hair grew in a counterclockwise whorl rather than her clockwise. Perhaps at some stage of the thing's metamorphosis the ridges of its fingerprints had been valleys, its moles dark-colored pits, its acne scars bumps that fitted into her own, but now every feature was just like her own, only a mirror image.
Vickie began to have misgivings. She looked at the scars on her knees. The broad one just under the left kneecap, from a bicycle fall on her seventh birthday, was faded but quite visible, and of course the skin had a matching one just under its right kneecap, masked a little by its pallor but otherwise just like what she would see in a mirror.
A thought flitted through Vickie's mind and vanished. She hunted it down, and cringed: something inside her had suggested that it might not be a bad thing if the rest of this metamorphosis didn't work, that perhaps she should ensure that it wouldn't and flush the brown goo down the toilet a little at a time, and dispose of this skin somehow, and keep Al's money; after all, someone would notice those incredible similarities, and something horrid would happen...
Vickie sighed and let the thought pass. She put the skin on a towel rack and went back to her bedroom to dress. She put on bra and panties and old jeans cut short and an old T-shirt with a faded advertisement for beer, and went to the kitchen for breakfast: cherry toaster pastries, eaten untoasted and washed down with milk and in haste. A minute after finishing, Vickie could not have told anyone for certain what she had eaten. She went to the guest bathroom and got another jar from under the sink, then returned to the other bathroom with it.
Vickie took the mirror-image skin from the towel rack and put it into the big bathtub. "Damn," she said aloud, and went to the kitchen again and got a butter knife. She opened the jar, which was full of a stiff, translucent paste, and scooped some up with the butter knife. With it she began to seal the orifices on the skin, troweling the paste into the ear canals and the nostrils, spreading it gently over the closed eyelids and lips, and then working downwards. By the time she was done with the anus, the paste in the ears was set, solid but flexible, like properly-cured silicone sealer.
As the last of the sealant dried, Vickie pushed the big buckets of goo out of the linen closet and back near the tub, cursing her own passion for tidiness, wondering why she couldn't have just left them where she'd filled them. After a short search she found the plastic scoop in the guest bathroom, with no idea of how it had gotten there. She prodded the sealant in the skin's anus and found it set, and she arranged the skin prone in the tub, the slit in its back horizontal and facing the ceiling.
Vickie unsealed one of the buckets and sniffed the contents. The brown goo still had no smell, and hadn't changed color; those were good signs. She took a generous scoopful of it and put it through the slit in the skin with a sigh. This'll take hours, she thought, and what if it doesn't work? Hell, what if it does? Not the best situation either, though at least Al -- I mean Amanda, Mandy -- will be happy. For a while, until something goes wrong.
Vickie worked quickly and methodically, and in fact had the skin filled with goo in about an hour and a half. She'd worked it carefully into the skin, filling fingers and toes painstakingly, trying to avoid overstuffing the elastic skin. Contact with goo seemed to take away most of the stretchiness, fortunately, or more likely that was just one more aspect of the magic. Vickie didn't really understand how it all worked. When she was finished, she wiped spilled goo off the skin with a washcloth she immediately rinsed (it retained a faint tan stain that she could never remove). Then she licked thumb and forefinger, knelt next to the tub, and began to pinch shut the slit in the stuffed skin, starting at the top end. She had to wet them with her saliva about a dozen times, but the slit did close as she pinched it, promptly and invisibly.
Vickie put the tub's stopper in its drain and began to fill the tub with warm water. She ran to the guest bathroom, although really there was no hurry, and came back with a little glass vial with a neck ground to fit a matching glass stopper. The stopper was sealed on with beeswax and the vial was nearly full; it held two milliliters or so of an intensely purple liquid. By now there was enough water in the tub for Vickie to turn the stuffed skin face-up without much trouble. When she had done that and dried her hands, she broke the beeswax seal with her left thumbnail, unstoppered the vial, and poured it into the stream of water coming from the tub's faucet. The dilution dimmed the purple color far less than one would expect. Vickie was not surprised by that.
Vickie shut off the faucet. The stuffed mirror-image of her own skin lay at the bottom of the purple liquid, orifices sealed, slightly bloated from being filled with too much brown goo (though most of the third bucketful remained, the scoop sticking out of it). "Nothing to do now but wait, Al," she said. "Or I should start calling you Amanda, or Mandy." The self that had been Al's was still unconscious, but now it was confined within the skin. "I've got to keep a close watch on you," Vickie went on, "`cause I don't know how long this will take, and you'll need help, I think."
Vickie ran out of the bathroom and came back with some magazines she'd bought for this wait: two fashion magazines, two entertainment and celebrity gossip. She urinated and defecated, keeping an eye on the thing in the tub. She rinsed out the glass she used for her toothbrush, filled it with water, and sipped the water slowly. She started to read, glancing every few seconds at the tub.
It was about twenty past one, and Vickie was hungry and bored. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, reading an article about a rising starlet, in her first big role at age twenty-three in a film that was an unexpected hit. The article was short on text, long on pictures, and included one of the girl's face at eighteen, an excellent photo by her amateur-photographer father, showing her looking innocent and adorable without makeup, all auburn hair and milky skin overrun with freckles. Vickie scowled at the image. Why couldn't my Mom and I have gotten real, useful magics? she thought. Why couldn't we have been able to turn me into someone like her, someone really beautiful who, fuck her, they say can really act too? It's not fair that she looks like that but I can't, the lucky bitch. Maybe I can change her face for her. What if I imprint my face on wax the way I did it on Al's skin, and make a Halloween mask for her, line it with the wax--
There was a splash in the tub, and Vickie dropped her magazine and looked towards it. A woman, a copy of herself, was trying to sit up in the tub; she was clawing at her own mouth and nose as if suffocating. Vickie jumped up, slipped, and fell into the tub atop the other woman, but kept her head above the pale purple liquid. With the side of her right thumb and the side of its forefinger, Vickie grabbed the woman's nose just below its bridge, and the plugs of sealant popped from both its nostrils. The woman took a huge breath, sneezed, panted wildly through her nose. Vickie, still more or less atop her, pulled the sealant from her lips.
The woman gasped and coughed. "It worked, didn't it?" she said. The voice was at the same pitch as Vickie's, and had a feminine timbre, but to Vickie's ears it was still essentially Al's.
Vickie floundered about before she managed to remove the sealant from the woman's right ear. "As far as I can tell, Amanda," she told her.
"`Amanda'? I really am Amanda now? I'm Mandy?"
"Wait," said Vickie. "Let me get this stuff off your eyes and out of your other ear. Let me get out of the tub first -- I didn't mean to fall on top of you, but you seemed to be suffocating and I was in a hurry." She managed to stand, and stepped out of the tub, clothes dripping. "Now sit up and hold still."
"Okay," said Amanda, doing so.
Vickie pulled out the other earplug. "I'm going to take these blobs of sealant off your eyes," she said. "I'll try not to take too many eyelashes off with them. Hold still." Vickie slipped a fingernail under the sealant on Amanda's right eye, and carefully worked the blob loose, leaving three lashes embedded. With the left eye she removed only two.
Amanda waited until both blobs were off before she opened her eyes. She saw Vickie's face. "I know I won't see anything different if you get me a mirror, but would you mind?" she said.
"Why not just get up, Mandy?" said Vickie. "Stand up and look at your new self in the bathroom mirror. Need help?"
"I think I can manage," said Amanda. She looked down at her chest, however, and smiled when she saw her breasts. She fondled them for a few moments, hefted them, convinced herself they were real. Vickie thought that Amanda seemed just a little disappointed in them. Amanda put her hands to the rim of the tub and got to her feet unsteadily.
"You okay?" asked Vickie.
"Fine," said Amanda. She stepped out of the tub without trouble and stood on the bathmat. She looked in the mirror, then at Vickie. "Shit," she said, barely audible. "We really are mirror images. Would you mind getting stripped?"
"My clothes are wet anyhow," said Vickie. Amanda helped her pull off her wet T-shirt and unhook her bra.
"Okay," said Amanda, when Vickie was also naked. "Now stand next to the mirror and I'll compare my reflection to you."
"Sure," said Vickie.
Amanda said nothing for a few minutes. She fondled her own new body sporadically, but mostly she studied some part of her reflection, then the same part of Vickie's naked body: face, ears, neck, chest, arms, and so on. "This is uncanny," she said. "We're perfect living mirror images."
"I told you so when you were Al," said Vickie. "Every freckle, every scar, everything. As far as I know. Check our teeth."
Amanda stepped closer to the mirror and Vickie came and stood next to her. Vickie opened the medicine cabinet on the wall nearby and got out a cheap dental mirror mounted on a plastic handle, giving it to Amanda. Amanda alternated between studying the mirror image of her own teeth and studying Vickie's, and gradually looked more disconcerted. "Well?" asked Vickie.
"Vickie, they're exactly alike," said Amanda. "I mean, allowing for the mirror image. Same fillings of the same shape, same cracks and chips. No real twin sisters could have that. No way."
"We'd better not go to the same dentist," said Vickie. "Anyway, Mandy, let's rinse off what's left of that purple stuff and get some clothes on, okay?"
"Vickie, I'd like to thank you--" began Amanda.
"Later," said Vickie. "First things first. Explore your new body while you wash."
"We could shower together," said Amanda.
"I'd rather not, Mandy," said Vickie. "Do you mind? I think you should be alone for a little while with the new you, anyway."
"All right," said Amanda. "Mind if I use this bathroom? I mean, Al took a shower in the other one, and, you know..."
"No problem," said Vickie, taking the stopper out of the tub. "Make sure the end of the curtain stays in the tub, and all that."
"Okay," said Amanda.
Vickie went to the guest bathroom's shower stall and rinsed herself off. In a few minutes she was back in her bedroom, everyday white cotton bra and panties under T-shirt and summer-weight jeans. She set out similar clothes for Amanda. Mandy'll have to buy her own clothes soon, thought Vickie. I don't think I'll have enough for us both, except in the short run. Laundry twice a week, even then.
Some minutes later the shower was still running. Vickie thought she heard exaggerated moans along with the sound of water. "Oh, Al -- I mean, Mandy," she said aloud. "I've had this body for nearly thirty years and orgasms in it are good fun, but they're not that great." At length the water stopped -- the water heater's tank isn't all that big, thank goodness, thought Vickie. More delay.
Eventually Amanda came out, hair slightly damp and combed straight. She looked at Vickie's clothes, at the clothes Vickie had chosen for her. "What, no party clothes? Aren't we gonna celebrate the new me?"
"Mandy," said Vickie, "I'm sorry, but I'm tired. I'm happy for you, I'm glad you've finally in a body of the right sex, but it's been a lot of work making you into the woman you are, and I just want to relax."
Amanda was just as expert at petulance as she had been as Al. "All my life I've wanted to wear pretty dresses and have them fit my body, and I've got to wear jeans and T-shirt? Really, Vickie!"
"Mandy," said Vickie, "help yourself to anything in my wardrobe, from my businesswoman suit I wear for interviews, to my bridesmaid dress, to my only formal gown, to frilly blouses and skirts, to dresses. Wear anything you like. I thought the clothes wouldn't matter once you had the proper flesh. You don't have to dress like a drag queen any more to look like a woman. You look like a woman anyway now, whatever you wear, because you are one, inside and out, body and soul. Look, you'll have the rest of your life to wear women's clothes without anyone even imagining you're anything but a real woman."
"Sorry, Vickie," said Amanda. "I'm just so excited. I masturbated in the shower, you know. It's so much better for us women."
"I wouldn't know," said Vickie. "Look, Mandy, I'm hungry. I'm going to have some lunch. Take your time. Have some more orgasms, get dressed in what you like when you like, and join me when you feel like it, okay?" She left her bedroom without waiting for Amanda's reply.
Vickie was hungry, but she took her time and prepared herself her first good meal in several days, chicken stir-fried with vegetables, served on rice. The vegetables were mostly frozen or canned, and the rice was necessarily "instant" rice, but the result was not bad. She made enough extra for Amanda, and sat down and ate her own portion slowly, concentrating on the food and setting aside the problems that Al's transformation into Amanda would soon bring about. Afterwards Vickie had a small dish of sherbet, then went to the living room and curled up in her favorite chair.
Vickie was half asleep when Amanda came in. "Ta-da!" cried Amanda, and Vickie sat up and looked at her. She had half-expected to see Amanda in her interview suit or her formal gown, face gaudily made-up, the clothing visibly damp at the crotch. Instead Amanda was the woman Vickie saw in the mirror before she left for work, apart from a very good padded bra and a face transformed into a flawless beige mask by makeup as careful as a fashion model's before a photo shoot: knee length blue skirt, white blouse with a blue bow matching the skirt exactly, black pantyhose, black pumps, hair carefully piled atop her head. "How do I look?"
"The way I look at work," said Vickie, "only with makeup I never have the time or skill to put on, and that expensive bra with those gel pads that I feel so silly wearing." Amanda had also been generous with Vickie's second-favorite perfume, and its smell filled the room.
"It's the way Al first saw you," said Amanda. "You were in this blouse and skirt and shoes and perfume. Okay, I've improved on your looks a little because I don't have your personality. Right away he said to himself, `She's a beautiful woman. I wish I looked like her.' Now I do. A dream come true. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Mandy," said Vickie.
"It'd be fun to go to work as you," said Amanda. "Vickie, how'd you like to take a vacation and let me stand in for you at your job for a week?"
"Mandy," said Vickie, "I don't mind your having a copy of my body, but I draw the line at letting you take my identity."
Amanda looked contrite. "Sorry. It's just so wonderful having a real female body at last." She began almost to babble. "It almost makes up for it not being my ideal body, you know -- that it's a copy of such a nice woman's body. I shouldn't even try thinking of taking your place. All I've got is your looks, but it's your self that makes Vickie Vickie. At least I get to look like that, the woman with that wonderful self."
"Uh, thanks," Vickie said after an awkward pause. "I fixed some extra lunch. Are you hungry, Mandy?"
"No," said Amanda. "It's like I've had some huge meal I'm still digesting."
"Could be a side-effect of the transformation," said Vickie, and explained how she might have overstuffed the skin before making it change into Amanda's body.
By dinnertime Amanda was hungry. She wanted to go out in public with Vickie, go together to dinner at a popular restaurant where Al had often eaten, but Vickie told her that they had to work out the details of her story. "We should have done this while you were still Al," said Vickie. "We need to explain your existence, try to get you some sort of official documents."
"How about a DNA test?" said Amanda. "That'll prove I'm your identical twin sister, and we can make up some story about amnesia and being separated at birth or something."
"Mandy, this is magic, not science. I don't even know if your DNA is now much like mine. Whoever invented this set of spells and potions must have known something about molecular biology, and long before the rest of the world did, because you're not completely a mirror image of me -- just as well."
Amanda looked puzzled for a second. "Oh!" she said. "Chiral molecules."
"Exactly," said Vickie. "Mom's friend would have starved to death on normal food, needing mirror-image amino acids and so on that I don't even think exist in nature. But she's alive and well, and unless somehow I fucked up, you should be just fine. Anyway, we have to get your story straight first. We'll send out for pizza."
"I get to make the phone call and answer the door and flirt with the delivery boy, okay?" said Amanda.
Amanda had ordered enough pizza to satisfy the body she had had as Al, and when it arrived she had gone to the door in her idealized Amanda-the-secretary getup, tipped the delivery boy heavily, pressed the lifelike pads of her bra against him, and kissed him with her perfectly made-up face. His voice had quavered with lust as he wished her a good night. Vickie had gotten her to dress down to keep pizza grease off her work clothes, and Amanda had returned in jeans and T-shirt to find the pizzas on a big platter and proper plates and wine glasses on the table.
"I can't eat another bite," said Amanda. She had ordered two large pizzas and eaten some of both, equal to more than half of one. She had tried to drink like Al and had finished three glasses of jug Chianti and was working on a fourth.
"You've eaten, and drunk, twice what I have," said Vickie, "and I'm slightly drunk and entirely full. You're my identical twin sister Amanda. You are not Al. Forget him and don't try to act like him. It's not ladylike, even."
"Sorry, Vickie," said Amanda. "I wonder if I'm going to vomit."
"I have a pretty big capacity for my size, Mandy," said Vickie. "I doubt it. You're going to feel miserable for a while, and I bet you have a big hangover in the morning. No more wine now, okay."
"Okay," said Amanda.
They got up from the table and went to the living room, Amanda apparently no more unsteady than Vickie. They sat down next to each other on the sofa, Amanda on Vickie's right. "So how do you like the new you so far?" asked Vickie.
"It's a little dis-disconcerting looking in the mirror and seeing you," said Amanda, finally showing faint signs of drunkenness, "but it's so much better seeing a woman there than a man. I can't complain."
"Any aches in your hip yet?" asked Vickie.
"Nothing yet," said Amanda. The almost-identical women were silent for a time. Presently Amanda snuggled up to Vickie. Neither said or did anything for some minutes. Then Amanda put her left hand in Vickie's lap and fumbled at her crotch.
"Cut that out, Mandy," said Vickie: polite but firm.
Amanda looked surprised, but withdrew her hand and put it to her own crotch. "I just thought you might like to, you know..."
"No, thanks," said Vickie.
"You had sex with me when I was trapped in a man's body," said Amanda. "Now I'm a woman like I was meant to be, not the woman I shoulda been but close, you don't love me any more?"
"Not that kind of love," said Vickie.
"But it's me in here!" said Amanda. "It's the same self that made Al who he was, only in the right sort of body at last!"
"I just don't enjoy sex with women," said Vickie.
"You seemed to enjoy it with a woman in a man's body," said Amanda.
"All right, then, I just don't enjoy sex with women in women's bodies, men in women's bodies, space aliens in women's bodies, anybody in a woman's body," said Vickie. "Just a matter of personal taste. I'm in a woman's body myself and I like sex with someone in a man's body, thank you."
"You're a homophobe," said Amanda.
"When you were trapped in a man's body and known as Al, Amanda," said Vickie, "suppose you'd met someone like yourself, another woman trapped in a man's body. Suppose that person had wanted to have sex with you. Would you have had sex with that person?"
"I wasn't a faggot!" said Amanda.
"Homophobe yourself," said Vickie, "if you're going to call names. You, in a male body then, didn't want sex with someone else in a male body. I, in a female body, don't want sex with someone else in a female body."
Amanda tried to embrace Vickie, but she pushed her away. "You're drunk and your body isn't up to its full strength so soon after your metamorphosis, Amanda. I'm stronger than you are now, Amanda. You've been a good friend, but if I thought you were going to act like this I never would have made you into my twin."
Amanda looked stunned. Some seconds later she said, "Oh, hell, Vickie, I've fucked this up, haven't I?"
"Yes," said Vickie.
"Ah, shit," said Amanda. "Here I am, you've done me this in-incredible favor by turning me into a real girl, I can have babies, I'm all girl, I'm all real, no operation or hormones could do it but you can, you did, and all I can do is make a pass at you."
"Not the best way to say thanks," said Vickie, "'less you know it's wanted. Where'd you get that idea?"
Amanda looked more miserable than before. "Some crap I keep reading, something about 'most all women b-being bisexual at heart. And I look like who you see in the mirror. Self-love, y'know."
"Thanks, but no thanks, Mandy," said Vickie. "Look, let's get you to bed -- your own bed, Mandy, not mine, in one of the spare bedrooms. You're going to have a hangover and a guilty conscience tomorrow."
(Enough. I'm tired of working on this.)
end of part 2, end of story
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