The New Job - 6

I wake, blinking a few times, reminding myself who I am. Sometimes I wake up and I’m not me.

This morning, I am, even though I’m not sleeping in my own bed. Amaira has excellent taste in bed linens, which is a bonus. I feel like I’m sleeping on air.

Rousing myself I take care of the normal, everyday morning activities, then prepare myself to get dressed. Unlike most people, this involves dousing my body in talc, shaving everywhere including my genitals - and finally, removing a realistic skinsuit from the closet.

I press firmly below my ear and hear a distinctive click. “Good morning,” I say, using my own voice.

“Morning.”

That’s not the voice I’m expecting. It’s a woman.

“Who is this?”

She tells me a name, which is clearly an assigned alias.

“I was expecting someone else.”

“He’s on leave.”

“Really.” For a second, I debate arguing that I need my original handler, that we’ve established a rapport… but then I wonder if he’s actually on leave. Perhaps he’s been fired. Someone reviewed some tape, and he got the axe. I feel the tiniest twinge of guilt. Then I remember that he’s the one who watched. I’d have been perfectly happy going solo.

“Are you dressed yet?”

“No,” I say. “Working on it.”

“Let me know when you’re ready,” she says, and clicks off abruptly.

I feel some disappointment. I was sort of hoping to ‘show off’ Amaira in her natural form to my appreciative audience. “C’est la vie,” I mutter.

The body I’m about to wear is supple, floppy almost, draped over the edge of the bed like any other suit of clothing. Just a little more expensive than your average suit. I shuck it from the hanger, holding it up, inspecting for tears or flaws. It’s not likely, but I check anyway. Everything looks good, so I sit back down on the bed and slowly begin to push one foot inside.

It’s a weird experience, really. It always is. It’s a little like putting on a wetsuit, but it’s softer and more pliable. The inside feels soft and silky, welcoming even, but it’s still close and warm. On a hot day, it can be downright unpleasant. In Amaira’s air-conditioned apartment, it’s like sliding beneath a blanket.

My left leg stretches out, searching for the end of the suit with my toes - appropriately, finding a set of fake toes waiting for me. This is unusual. Most of my suits tend to end at the ankle, and I get to enjoy a good pedicure when I ‘make over’ my feet to suit my impersonation. Of course, being a white male, sometimes I have to do a little more work. We’ve tried spray tan, we’ve tried semi-permanent pigment… but sometimes you just have to go with fake skin. As we did this time, to match Amaira’s tones and ensure that, head-to-toe, I am a perfect match. Bonus: I get to wear slinky, open-toed heels.

My own toes squeeze inside hers, expanding the soft material a little. I’m not an exact match - my shoe size is a little larger - but it’s not dramatic enough to be noticed. (In those scenarios, we’re talking boots. On the rare occasion someone’s feet are much smaller than mine, well, I don’t keep those jobs.) I stretch my leg and turn my ankle, smoothing the calf material over mine. I start to smile. The transformation has begun.

Repeating the process with my right leg, before too long I’m stood with a female body around my ankles, as I wiggle and inspect my toes. Then I begin to pull the suit up, feeling it slide over my knees and thighs. Just before it hits my crotch, I adjust myself. I’ve spent a lot of time practicing this move; my penis slides into place, utterly hidden yet still accessible if necessary. I’ve also spent a lot of time practicing to keep calm during this move. After it’s in place, there’s a certain amount of leeway for my excitement… but at this point, I need to be as soft down there as possible.

Carefully I pull the rest of the suit up, sliding into Amaira’s behind. She’s got a beautiful, luscious ass that I really have enjoyed walking around in so far. With the ass in place, that means her cunt is present and correct too. I move her feet apart slightly, checking that everything moves as it should. I enjoy watching my own, white hand brush over her darker skin, knowing that beneath it is my own Caucasian cock.

I bend over and lift up her chest, both breasts heavy in my hands. This part is a little tricky. Despite the ‘neck’ of the suit being stretched around my waist, the breasts still have to be lifted as I shimmy down, lifting her chest and sliding her stomach over mine. The built-in slimming devices haven’t been activated yet, so it’s relatively easy to do, just awkward.

With one hand holding both breasts, I carefully thread the other inside and down, beneath the neck and into a sleeve. Right at the bottom my fingers slip inside hers, my hand opening and closing as I feel the suit tighten a little around me. Then I switch positions, holding the breasts with ‘her’ hand as I slip my other arm inside. As my hand slips inside, I lift my arm and the breasts come with it. I stretch both hands over my head and the neck pulls upward. I feel everything settle into place.

One more step. I find the same can of ‘hairspray’ I used the previous day to undress, and twist the head so it clicks in the opposite direction. Then I spray myself liberally, from neck to toes. Immediately the suit reacts, tightening in every direction, even getting a little bit uncomfortable around my crotch for a second. I hold my breath as the middle tightens - not too much, thankfully - and then exhale slowly, adjusting to my new rhythm.

The mirror beckons.

I pick up Amaira’s face, discarded from the previous night. As I step into view of the mirror, I lift the mask up high, obscuring my own face. I have no need, no desire to see myself this morning. Or any morning, really. At the same time, I cannot resist seeing the moment that’s coming. The moment of transformation. The moment of change.

I close my eyes, bow my head and open the neck of the mask wide, pulling it on easily. As my hands caress my face, sliding over my cheeks, I open my eyes to darkness - but see light approaching, filtering through the open eyeholes of the mask. My cock begins to surge as my hands vanish, the mask settles, and suddenly I’m seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.

Amaira’s face is stretched and pulled, expanding and contracting as her fingers press and pull. She can’t help but smile, because I’m controlling her, I’m issuing the commands that make her smile, bite her lip in a sexy pout and finally, toss her dark hair over and back as she laughs, long and loud, her voice finally issuing from her lips.

The zipper is found, attached and pulled into place, sealing me inside the suit completely. Microscopic pores ensure that I won’t sweat to death immediately, but I’m still intimately aware, for a few minutes at least, that I’m literally wearing the skin of a beautiful woman.

My hands move to her breasts, holding them, cupping them for a moment. I narrow my eyes and watch her enjoy herself, a moment of pure pleasure before the day begins. My thoughts wander to my handler, the original one that is, and wherever he might be now. He’d probably have loved to see this. As I think of him, of performing for him the night previous, an involuntary moan escapes my lips.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The woman’s voice in my ear is sudden and surprising. I’d been so wrapped up in looking at Amaira, I hadn’t heard the mic click on.

“Always,” I say after a moment. I enjoy the juxtaposition of my voice and her face in the mirror. “Perk of the job.”

“Well, if you’re quite ready, we need to brief you. Specifically, on the item in your hall closet. Or rather, Amaira’s closet.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” I say, seamlessly switching into Amaira’s tones. “You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not here.”

“Right,” she says. “Check the closet. And get your camera on, please.”

I pick out a fluffy robe as a temporary covering, grab the lapel camera and attach it in a similar sort of place on the robe. Then I stride to the closet, re-experiencing the shift of Amaira’s buttocks as I walk, the subtle pull of her breasts. It feels fantastic.

I slide the closet door open and spy the black case inside. It’s featureless, boring. Standard agency issue, I guess. I haul it through to the living room and place it on the coffee table.

“Any clues?” I say as I examine the latches. “I hope it’s a bike.”

“Open it.”

The latches click open at my touch - neat trick, considering I have Amaira’s fingerprints. There’s a block of foam in front of me, and I half expect to remove it and see the components for a sniper rifle. It’s been a while….

As I lift the foam aside however, something more interesting is found inside. A person. More precisely, the face of a person.

“Well, well,” I say quietly. “Don’t tell me. My new assignment?”

“Exactly,” she says. “Do I need to say any more?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious what I need to do. In case you were wondering, I accept.”

I reach into the case and lift out the mask, then rise to walk with it.

Amaira steps in front of her hallway mirror and smiles, the face of a woman with a secret. She’s about to have two.

I raise the mask up and hold it next to me. The features are slack, oblivious, obedient. Soon, they’ll be mine. Or more precisely, Amaira’s. I’m about to make her into a mistress of disguise.

“Day two on the job,” I whisper, “and I’m already gunning for my new boss.”

I smile Amaira’s smile as I move the mask in front of her face, imagining it smoothing into place, slowly transforming my existing persona… into that of Ms. Gagliardi herself.

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