The New Job - 5

My invisible friend clocks out for the night, at my insistence. At his insistence, I tell him I won’t touch the new equipment case until he’s back on shift, tomorrow morning.

I’m such a liar.

With Amaira’s robe around me hiding her dark-skinned body, all that’s left for an observer to see is the perky, blond-haired white girl’s face atop Amaira’s body. It’s an interesting look, but I’m not worried about anyone seeing me. The camera on my suit lapel is covered. While my mic’s still open, I’ve only got to be careful about what I say, not what I see.

What I see is a black case, sitting in the corridor leading from Amaira’s front door. My ‘new equipment’.

It’s a standard issue case with the usual bullet-and-bomb proof outer shell. The locks are fingerprint activated, and I realize quickly they won’t open to Amaira’s prints, which of course have been replicated on the suit I wear. That means it’s time to get changed, earlier than expected.

Leaving the case in Amaira’s bedroom, I step into her bathroom and smile at my fake face in the mirror. The smile’s half-real; those are my teeth, but fake lips. I lean closer to my reflection, reach up Amaira’s hand and peel the realistic flesh of the lip back for a moment, exposing my own skin. The air touching it feels good. It’s easy to forget that.

“Quitting time, I guess,” I mutter, and drop the robe to the floor. The sudden contrast between my white woman’s face and Indian woman’s body becomes very apparent, and I grin at the contrast. Amaira’s body is still quite the sight to see. I’m a big fan of her breasts; ample but not overwhelming, they sit within the lace-edged bra I’ve worn all day, sagging slightly because of the missing mask. Without the connection between mask and body, everything tends to dip a little.

The bra comes off easily and I drop it to the floor. Amaira’s wide, beautiful nipples, so perfectly recreated, are erect and ready, molded that way forever. If I was playing at a long term relationship that might seem odd, but as long as they’re covered by a bra, they only get exposed when it’s appropriate. I cup both breasts for a moment, giving myself a seductive smile. Then I bend over and slip off her pantyhose, sliding it down my legs and putting it to one side.

Unlike the hidden zipper that lets me remove the mask from the suit, the rest of me needs some specific chemical assistance to be removed. I look in Amaira’s drawers and find the aerosol almost immediately - placed there by my helpful handler, I’d guess.

To anyone who didn’t know better, I’m holding a well-known brand of hairspray. Look a little closer, compare it to a real sample, and you might start to notice subtle differences in the ingredients, in the package design. A transposed letter here. An extra line there. The differences are so subtle you could easily assume they were printing errors, but I’ve used this stuff so many times I notice it immediately now. I could pick out the correct can from a supermarket shelf full of the real thing.

If that happened to a civilian, they’d have no problems either. Pull off the top, press down and you get, well, hairspray. Press and turn the nozzle, however, and you’ll hear a soft click. That means the secondary, hidden tank inside is active. Which is exactly what I do, then aim the nozzle at Amaira’s naked chest and spray.

Her breasts begin to sag even further, almost immediately, as the suit begins to expand and stretch, very slightly. I keep spraying, coating my arms and my stomach, then down to my groin and legs. Just about my entire front gets a touch, and by the time I’m spraying my toes, the entire suit feels heavy on my body. I straighten up, put down the spray, and with a slight shimmy, the suit starts to slide off me. With a little encouragement my arms are pulled free, and I begin to push the rest of the suit down.

Beneath Amaira’s skin is my own, suitably sweaty and covered in streaks of talc. My skin is laughably pale these days, thanks to my job - even paler than the face I’m still wearing. If you saw me in daylight you’d probably think I was part vampire. Of course, you’d never see me. Hell, I practically never see me either.

My cock is limp and more than a little messy as I extract it from the most complex part of the suit. I can finally pee standing up again. The inside will need a quick wash, as it usually does, but I’ll do all that before I sleep. I need Amaira ready to go first thing, and I’m always meticulous in my prep.

I pick up her robe again, slipping into it, and notice my face in the mirror. My mask. For a second I wonder if I should take it off at all. That thought reflects in her pensive face, but just for a second. I need to give my skin some time to breath, after all. I reach to the edge of the mask, below my collarbone, ready to pull - but pause. A thought strikes me.

Would he want to see this? My handler, that is?

It seems unlikely. He’s pretty enamored with Amaira, after all, and I don’t blame him - she’s hotter than she has any right to be. I do wonder, though. It’s always tough to tell with the few men I’ve shared my secret with. Sometimes they say they want to see me, insist they do… but then I see the light in their eyes die as my real face is exposed. They prefer the charade, the impersonation. They don’t think they do, but they do. That was one of the reasons why I put this mask on first thing, before I became Amaira. In anticipation of a reveal. Hedging my bets.

He’s not here to watch me now, however. So I loosen the robe, plant my feet, and smile to myself. Whether he’s here or not, I can still have a good time.

“I hope you liked watching me,” I whisper to the mirror. “I liked being Amaira for you. You’ll see her again. This face?” I raise an eyebrow. “Not so likely.”

My hand peels the edge of the mask away from my skin, letting air in. My fingers edge beneath the material, pushing upwards. The face I’m wearing looks excited, anticipating the moment, almost teasing me. The mask’s grip begins to loosen as my fingers pry further, slowly separating the two parts of my appearance, the fake and the real.

Almost without thinking, my other hand goes downwards, seeking my cock, which is rapidly hardening. I begin to stroke slowly as the mask starts to distort, the chin rippling outwards. I add a little moan, a little twitch of excitement, and then as I pull the mask, seeing it stretch I moan again, only this time it’s not faked. This time it’s real. This time it’s me, imagining the face of my handler as his eyes widen, his mouth drops open and he’s stunned to see this face of mine buckle and fold inwards, the eyes vanishing as my hand lifts up and away, ripping away the face of this woman and tossing it to one side… and coming uncontrollably as I do, shuddering, panting.

The mask slides from my hand, a soft rustle as it hits the floor. I grin at myself in the mirror, the real me this time… and then the smile fades, as I’m reminded why I mask my face every day.

I turn away and shut the door.

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