Though the idea of wearing that skin makes you hot and bothered, you wouldn’t be any different from the creep that stands inches near you, just as deflated. Even if you only want to wear her for a couple minutes, you need to make sure she can be recovered. If she can’t, well...
You lay her flat, face up, on her bed and straighten her clothes so that they fit exactly where they should. You don’t even peek, though curiosity gnaws at you. As you point the pen at her, however, you hear her cellphone ringing – and as you check who it is, the name intrigues you.
“Mr. Anderson.”
Answering it yourself seems like a terrible idea, so you let it pass. Yet, whoever is calling is insistent, and you don’t want them to come to you.
So you make a desperate decision and slide Ashley’s head into yours.
The skin feels oddly real, but the innards feel slimy and sticky. As soon as you start adjusting it, however, the skin starts to stick into yours, hugging your head tightly. You adjust your nose and cheeks, and slowly you stop feeling the slimy glue; instead, you feel your hand rubbing her short, messy hair, and her soft, round cheeks, and her thin lips.
Your trance is interrupted as you hear the phone ringing again. “Who’s calling her so much?” you ask, marveled that your voice completely resembled hers. You answer, suspecting whoever’s calling knows you. “Hello?”
“Ashley?” The voice on the other side inquires. It’s an older man’s voice, and a commandeering one at that, but strangely playful “I didn’t see you at your meeting place.”
They were gonna meet in front of my home? you think, wondering the reasons why.
“I saw someone getting nearby,” you mutter, hoping it works as an excuse, “so I moved to mine. I...” You feel bile forming in your stomach – what if he’s one of that creep’s friends? “Listen - you know where I live, right?”
“That’s where we always meet, no? I mean – I helped you find that place, after all.”
The way the man spoke about her gives you the creeps. It had this manipulative hint to it; something along the lines of “I did this for you, so you owe me now”, yet also a paternal one, as if he said, “I’m looking for you”. You feel sad for her, being sought over by creeps.
You already dealt with one, though. What’s dealing with another? “Yeah, I know. Just give me some time to prepare.”
“Sure, sure. Do you want me to bring something to eat?”
Yeesh! You recoil with disgust. So pushy...!
“Uh... sure. I was going to call for food anyways.”
The voice cackles, responding in a patronizing tone. “And here I was hoping you’d cook for me at least once.” He sighs, still cackling. “Same as always, or something different?”
“Uh... same, same.”
“A shame. There’s this Thai place I want to take you out to. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
You panic, since you’re not sure how long it’ll take you to prepare everything. “How about an hour? I want to make sure that creep’s not nearby.”
“If he appears, I’ll deal with him. No need to worry, darling. See you in an hour.”
As the call ends, you find yourself in a conundrum. It seems Ashley knows this “Mr. Anderson” and trusts him, but the way he treats her... You really don’t trust this guy; no less than the one that tried to wear her.
You’re already wearing her halfway, and you got an hour to yourself. It should give you enough time to acquaint yourself with her – though, wouldn’t that make you a creep just like them?
It should give you enough time to hide the other creep’s skin and your clothes, though. It takes a while to pull off her face, as you feel yours almost getting ripped off. The ruckus causes her panties – lacy wine red – to fall off with her skirt, stockings and pumps, but her large breasts make her top stay hanging flimsily.
You rummage through her closet, trying to find something to hide the other skin. You find a couple laundry bags, but all are filled with clothes, and the hangers feel too flimsy to hold the guy’s skin as you shove it on the deepest corner, so you resort to heaving it under the bed until it can’t be seen at plain sight. You then take off your shirt and jeans, plus your boxers, and hide them under one of the pillows while hiding your sneakers and socks in the darkest corner of her closet, near her shoes.
You pull off her top and unlatch her bra (a dim beige, blending nicely with the top), leaving her stark naked. Your thing engorges into a raging boner as you see the half-deflated breasts and the curvy figure lying motionless before you. You sit on her bed, pulling off her legs into yours as if you were putting on socks – if those socks were stretchy and feeling like they were some sort of rubbery flesh. Just like with the head, adjusting it is a chore, because the skin just wants to cling to your hair and pull; yet, once in place, it doesn’t feel like you’re wearing something. Her toes, with half-chipped painted nails, move to your beat, and you scrape her rug only to feel the fuzz in its entirety.
You stand up and pull her crotch into yours, until her waist matches yours. You slide your arms into her slender ones, having to pull the skin deeper into yours. You adjust your chest, and as a final act, you pull her head into yours, rubbing her face until her cheeks, her nose and her lips felt one with yours.
You feel an odd jolt running through your body, and your back feels like it’s closing before the whole bind just merges into you. Her breasts slowly gain weight, growing until they become soft yet firm. You grab and squeeze one, and you feel it just like yours.
As you move closer to her mirror, you can see why that guy was excited at being Ashley Wright. Why wouldn’t anyone? Her breasts hang beautifully, with perky nipples; her groin is shaved, though you can see it needs a little retouch. The makeup in her face is mildly smudged (owing to how two people tried to adjust her face to theirs, you being the second), but you feel a little wiping will fix it. She has a delightful face, with soft and puffy cheeks, thin lips and nose and a sharp look that gives her a sassy expression when she smirks.
You check the time – the whole thing took you twenty minutes, at best. You may not have another chance to experience being a woman – and with a body as Ashley’s, that would be criminal. It’s no different from the creeps that are surrounding her, maybe, but at least you’re not planning on taking over her life...
--
“Going!”, you scream as you try to fit your pumps into your slender feet, after the doorbell surprised you in medias res. You skipped the stockings and panties, sliding the pencil skirt into her – your? - bare ass. You stand before the door, straightening her – your? - clothes to meet the guy courting Ashley.
“Sorry about that,” you say as you open the door. “I was--”
You open your eyes wide and in shock when you see the big man before you. You recognize that short hair trying to hide early balding, and that scruffy beard that constantly needs a shave; you recognize that worn shirt and coat that makes him look like a door-to-door salesman rather than an office slave. And you easily recognize those eyes.
Because, before you, stands Paul Anderson. Your dad.
“--distracted,” you mutter, trying to recover from the shock.
“I wonder how,” he says suggestively. He shakes a bag full of foam trays, smirking. “Brought food.”
You let him in, still struggling with the revelation. “Th-thanks. T-take a seat,” you add, dashing into the table.
He stops you, snorting while extending a seat to you. “C’mon... gentlemen should be the ones sitting ladies.” He smiles, and you flinch – so many people say you got your dad’s wide grin that it makes you feel like everyone should avoid you as the sicko you are.
“Yeah, right, but I thought--”
“Might be your home, but that doesn’t mean I can’t treat you like a princess in it. Though...” He looks at the room, adjusting his trousers. “We can eat dessert first and then go for the main course.”
You’re horrified. Your dad has been married to your mom for over twenty-five years – hell, they were school sweethearts! And now you realize your dad’s cheating on her with... Ashley?
That would explain his constant excuses for not being at home, though. Always “busy at work”, your mom says, at least once or twice a week. Getting calls from his “boss”, always moving away from home so as not to disturb you. What else has he been lying to you about?
If you told your mom, maybe she wouldn’t believe you. It’s been a long relationship, full of kids (you should know – you're one of them!), and nothing ever suggested your dad wanted a side fling.
You need to figure out more details. Find proof. If you’re going to rat your dad to your mom, you need an iron-clad case.
Though... why not confront him yourself?
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