Reclining Venus - Inanimate Statue

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   Every now and then, I liked to visit the museum of art after college in the quiet hour before closing time. There was a new installation there, an alabaster sculpture of a girl of beautiful craftsmanship. ‘Reclining Venus - Lorenzo Bartolini - 1820’.

A peculiar sensation of being watched overcame me as I stooped over the sculpture to examine its beauty. Oddly, while the rest of the artwork had ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, the one attached to this one read 'Please Touch'.

“Go ahead.” A woman, dark-haired and beautiful, stepped into the room. “You're welcome to touch it. Don't worry, she won’t bite. She won’t do anything. She’s just a statue.”

“I figured it was a misprint.”

“Not at all. We're encouraging all our visitors to interact with this particular piece. We find it's the best way for them to truly appreciate the artform. Go ahead.”

I shrugged and placed a hand on the statue's knee, appreciating the startling realism there before trailing my fingers slowly up the thigh. The stone was warmer than I’d anticipated, almost body temperature, and not quite as smooth as it appeared. Instead it was slightly granular, and it left a white, chalky residue on my fingertips.

The woman watched with an eerie intensity as my fingers investigated the anatomical-detail of the marble musculature that made up the buttocks. “Did you say something?” I asked. I could have sworn a soft moan came from somewhere.

“Must be the wind,” she soothed. “Pretty, isn’t she? She's such a pretty little thing. Don’t you think?”

“Whoever made her had quite the eye for female anatomy."

"Would you like to own her?"

"A little out of my price range I'm afraid," I laughed politely. Her strange manner unnerved me a little. "Do you work here?”

“My husband owns this collection.”

“He must be a rich man.”

“Very. Marcellino Vecoli, you may have heard of him. He worked hard all his life to assemble these pieces. But in his retirement he is somewhat more… reclining. He found that money did not buy him satisfaction.”

“What does?” I asked, making polite chit-chat. Something about the woman put me on edge, though she was beautiful enough to tolerate. Perhaps it was something about the room I didn't like.

She smiled enigmatically at my question. “What do you think about the chest? Please, take your time. The nipples were made by a master artisan.”

In the hope that complying would make her leave me alone in peace, I obliged, cupping the marble mammaries. Again, they were warmer than I expected stone to be. My fingertips examined the nipples, circling them studiously.

“There’s that wind again,” I muttered, withdrawing my hands quickly. The muffled orgasmic grunt from somewhere in the room was undeniable that time. I mumbled a 'thank you for your time', and quickly left, staring uneasily at the chalky residue on my hands.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

Gabriella Vecoli looks down at her husband frozen in plaster and spray-on marble. “Did you have fun there, darling?”

The statue gives a soft groan of affirmation, shifting its stiffly painted hand with effort to unveil something stiffer - the fleshy, pink, unpainted cock standing proud and throbbing between its alabaster thighs.

“Liked him, did you?” Gabriella croons, taking the cock in her hand. “Why don’t I finish you off and then we can get you out of this.” She leans in to whisper as she slowly jerks her encased husband to completion. “Or maybe I’ll keep you in there and sell you to the nice young man.”

Her statueified husband gives a gurgle of delight around his concealed oxygen and feeding tubes at the thought, as a spray of cum coats his marble skin.

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"Show time! Girdles on, boys!” my wife crows excitedly. She’s already whipping together the plaster of paris.

   My sons help each other with their corsets. I struggle with mine until she comes over and pulls hard on the strings, cinches it tight enough to force the air out my lungs. I wince and look down. It hurts to laugh, and I try not to chuckle at how my crushed male waist creates the illusion of a flaring, female pelvis and jutting behind. The corset comes to just below my pectorals, forcing the flesh of my chest up into two modest breast-shaped mounds. The corsets would hold us in the desired shape and, once covered in plaster, would be blended seamlessly with our bodies.

Jessica was a sculptor and the city council had commissioned her to create a showpiece to decorate a gala celebrating International Women’s Day. They wanted an eye-pleaser, something amazonian, something strong and fierce exemplifying the female ideal. And they wanted it in two days.

“Is using men as ornaments antithetical or in-keeping with the ideals of Women’s Day,” I muse as my wife tightens the corset a little more, cupping and pushing up my chest to form a facsimile of a B-cup.

“If they wanted a real statue, they should have given me months to make it, not days. Besides, what they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“It’s me I’m worried about. If they realize Hippolyta is a dude, they’ll kill me.”

“They’re not going to realise. You’re going to be beautiful. I’ll make sure of it,” she smiles. She cups my manhood but, rather than a fun fumble, she pushes my package back between my legs, tucking it out of sight between my asscheeks before taping it firmly down. That too will be smoothed over with plaster, merged seamlessly with my ass and obliterated from sight. She pats my flat crotch in amusement.

“Okay, now hold this,” she says, thrusting a bronze spear into my hands. “And wear this,” she says, handing me a helmet. “And these.” She gives me a pair of bronze-coloured, mirrored lenses that fit snugly over my eyes, intended to allow me to see out of my statue-body without looking like a scooby doo painting. She ushers me to a pedestal where my sons are already crouching in position.

She spends 20 minutes posing us - shoulders back, head back, breasts thrust proudly forward - while shouting contradictory advice at us about how to look both ‘feminine’ and ‘fierce’.

“I feel so stupid,” says Albert, crouching beside my right calf.

“Well if we don’t get this perfect you’ll spend the next 24 hours feeling stupid,” my wife chides him. She sighs, picking up her plaster. “That will have to do,” she says, as she begins to paint us.

The first coating is only a thin veneer, yet it hardens like stone as it sets, immobilizing me from neck to foot. I try to move even a finger. I can’t. “That stuff has quite a hold on it.”

“Don’t talk until it's fully set.”

The veneer tightens as it dries. It feels like I’m being vacuum-sealed inside it, though it isn’t too painful, and actually provides a pleasant amount of support, allowing me to relax out of the stance. Even fully relaxed, I remain standing, frozen in position.

   Jessica mixes the next, much thicker layer before daubing it onto my shoulders, smearing it down my torso in long lines that smother the outline of the corset. She rubs the clay in slow circles around my ‘breasts’. There’s  just enough mobility left to crane my neck to see her sculpting extra volume to my chest, and etching in the details of my nipples.

“Do you really need to make my tits so big?”

“Stop complaining or I’ll shove a water feature up your ass,” she snaps.

My sons receive the same treatment. She adds big handfuls of clay to our buttocks and hips, adding volume at first before smoothing it out to construct feminine asses and childbearing hips.

I feel her fingertips rummaging around near my ass and yelp as her finger pokes my puckered asshole. “The hell are you doing back there?!”

“Making a hole for your ass.”

“Why? You’ve had us on a liquid diet for three days.” The last thing my wife needed was her centerpiece taking a dump all over the gala.

“Duh, for the farts. Unless you want your farts just bouncing around inside your shell for the next 24 hours?”

Ugh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Was it too late to reconsider this?

It takes her a while to craft it in such a way that nobody is likely to ever notice it, but at last she’s satisfied with my asshole-hole. She steps back.

“Oh my god, this is amazing! You look incredible! Hold that pose, I’ve got to get a picture!”

“‘Hold that pose’? What else am I going to do?” I yell, cringing as she snaps picture after picture - my male head perched atop a the body of a female clay statue. “These better not be going anywhere near Instagram.”

“Relax, they’re just for my own personal enjoyment,” she teases. “Hold that scowl too, it's perfect! I need to do your face next!”

I’m frowning all the way until the veneer has been painted over my jaw and face. “How long does it take to dry?” I try to ask. My jaw doesn’t move. My entire face is rigid. I stare out at my wife, silent and completely immobile. Only my eyes move behind the lenses stuck to my face.

“Finally a bit of peace around here,” she chuckles after completing the same procedure on the two ‘amazons’ at my feet. She moves out of my line of sight before returning with the thicker clay, which she begins to thinly layer over my face, molding and shaping it. “I promised I’d make you beautiful and I will,” she croons, as I feel my face becoming a feminine mask.

The last step is the spray-on bronze. She slips on a mask, lays down a tarp, and comes at us with the cans of metallic paint from all ankles, making sure to get every nook and cranny. Gradually the plaster of paris is buried beneath a layer of metal. She wheels out a mirror for us to see the statue we’ve become. The illusion is perfect. We might be a thousand years old relic for all the world knows.

Jessica clambers up, giving me a lingering kiss on my frozen, bronze lips. “You’re so beautiful. I think you might be my finest work. A pity you’ll only last 24 hours.” She sighs. “The delivery men will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. You girls have a fun time at the gala, and I’ll break you out of there in the morning, okay?”

Wear Your Wife To Work Day - Inanimate/Sexchange TF/TG

 “Having fun down there?” I whisper to my wife, craning my neck to peer down around my prodigious breasts.

“You know it! Wear Your Wife To Work Day is the best!” my wife-panties exclaim from beneath the desk.

   Lifting one heel, I cross my legs demurely, thick thigh gliding over the other. My wife gives a delighted squee, using the movement to snuggle closer against my womanhood. I wiggle my black satin panties against the chair, knowing the experience is akin to a full-body massage for her pantified form.

“Mmm that feels so good. Thanks, sweetie. Oh, and thanks for wearing a shorter skirt this time - it makes for a much better view. It’s nice to put faces to voices for a change!”

The skirt is more a belt, gracing only the top of my buttocks while leaving the rest of the pert peaches exposed. I tug at it awkwardly. My wife had chosen it, though it was wholly inadequate for the feminine proportions the autocloset had blessed me with this year.

“You’re welcome. Although I’m concerned it might be giving the wrong signal to the other men in the office.”

That’s the central flaw with Wear Your Wife To Work Day. While the married men are expected to wear their wives upon their feminised bodies, the ones spared the transformation are the horndog young men without partners. It creats something of a charged atmosphere out of what is intended as a light-hearted (albeit jovially humiliating) annual event.

“Yup! I caught your new hire checking out your ass over lunch break,” my pantie-wife giggles.

I squirm at the thought of being objectified. “I’d best have a word with him about inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Wear Your Wife To Work Day is a day of fun, not an excuse to leer at your feminized boss!”

I wobble onto my heels and mince across the office, cursing whoever programmed the autocloset for this year as my ass jiggles obscenely with each step. It gives my wife quite the ride as she clings on for deep life. I lean over Simon’s desk. “Can I have a word with you in my office?”

A scandalized gasp escapes my panties as I lead him back to the office and, sure enough, looking back I find the man’s gaze drinking in the sight of my finely feminized derriere. He isn’t even trying to hide it. The cheek! Clucking my tongue in displeasure, I bite my tongue in anticipation of the proper dressing down awaiting him, but there’s little I can do about the exaggerated sashay of my hips, nor the wiggling of my soft buttocks except to endure his stares until I have him in my office.

“Close the door behind you and have a seat.”

A rough hand grabs my neck, powerful muscles bending me down over my desk. His hand lifts my skirt to expose my plump, vulnerable cheeks jutting into the air, then seizes the delicate fabric hem of my wife, dragging her down my rippling thighs.

“I’d rather have you instead,” he rasps in my ear.

He wrenches her away. There is a snap of elastic, a ripping of lace. My yell is silenced as he stuffs my wife, now nothing more than a torn rag, into my mouth. My mumbles and moans filter through the gag as he unbuckles his pants and mounts my womanhood on his cock.

The Fabric Of Life - Gymwear

 

 There was a new clothing store on the highstreet, The Fabric of Life. Unusual for a clothing store, it didn’t sell clothing. It would be more accurate to say the clothing sold themselves.

Personal wearers were in vogue. With the breakthrough in TF tech, people -quite often men- paid handsomely to be turned into and worn -quite often by women- as items of clothing, and a whole industry had sprung up, with some enterprising influencers making wearing their fans a huge part of their income.

As is often the case with new markets, personal wearers was completely unregulated. There had been tragedies, far too many missing persons, if the term ‘person’ could still be applied to the misplaced or malicious discarded ex-humans that now drifted through thrift stores, car boots sales, and ebay, trapped forever within their fabric bodies to be bought and sold by unknowing owners until time and use wore them out.

The Fabric of Life store had established itself as a reputable middle-man. Celebrity clients submitted requests to stock their wardrobes, the store advertised, and then performed the transmutation and delivery of paying customers into objects. When the contract expired, they ensured the individual was returned to their previous life. Sure, people occasionally still fell through the cracks, but it was safer.

When Emily Ratajkowski put out a request, the store made a huge deal out of it, advertising on buses and billboards, and turning it into a midnight opening. It wasn’t just that Emily wanted people-panties. Oh no, her entire wardrobe, her whole life was to be stocked with lucky fans. Not only would they have the honor of adorning her body, they’d decorate her home, be her furniture, her perfume, toiletries, even her food and drink.

Fans of the actress camped out in advance to secure spots in the queue, which snaked down the highstreet, half a mile of excited chatter. You were there to try a short-term contract, enjoying the positive vibes as the impromptu fan community light-heartedly divided themselves into #TeamPanties and #TeamSneakers. You were stuck behind a 19-year old superfan named Eric, a ginger-haired gentleman wired on so much coffee and anticipation he hadn’t slept in three days or, seemingly, stopped jabbering away factoids about his ‘goddess’, Emily, for even a moment.

At long last the store doors opened and fans surged inside. Store technicians began processing contracts. The non-disclosure agreement was 30-pages long - after all, fans would have intimate knowledge of every aspect of her life.

“How long?”

“Just 48 hours,” you reply. “I was hoping I can be her-”

“That’s $600. We take cash or card. Due to the volume of fan response, the store cannot guarantee final form,” the store technician stated bluntly, not even meeting your gaze. She had a long shift ahead of her and yawns as she ticks through boxes. “Though you will legally be the possession of Emily Ratajkowski, the store does not guarantee that you will be used, worn, touched, looked at, or otherwise acknowledged by Miss Ratajkowski. During your stay, you are not entitled to move, except where your final form entitles or requires you to move to perform your function. Due to safety legislation, you will be able to speak, though you are not entitled to speak to Miss Ratajkowski, in her presence, or in the presence of the press or paparazi. Failure to maintain silence will result in yadda yadda blah blah.”

The speech rambled for forty minutes before you were allowed to sign. You were led through into the transformation booth. Everything went black.

—----------------------------------

What a bargain! Only $500 to have your entire being stretched tight across your idol’s thighs, ass and pussy. Your entire form signs with each movement she makes. Her body heat permeates every part of you, her scent the most intoxicating perfume as you subtly nuzzle against her womanhood. It is as though your senses are stretched out, your entire form acting as your eyes, nose, and tongue.

And it has only been an hour since she plucked you from the wardrobe, ascended you above all others to be hers and hers alone. Your anticipation grows to fever pitch when you catch sight of yourself in store windows - you’re gym clothes! Soon you’ll drink in the sweaty delights of her workout.

Emily tenses suddenly as a nasal voice speaks from nowhere. It’s Eric.

“Oh, wow, you lucky bastards, I can’t believe you got to be her actual gymwear! What am I? Can anyone see what I am? Oh my god, she’s actually touching me! This is the best day of my life!”

Emily rolls her eyes, plucking the mouthy sunglasses from her head. She grips the two lenses tightly in her fists, flexing the thin, brittle plastic. The sunglasses give a tormented scream of pain in their final moment before there comes a crinkle of splintering plastic as the sunglasses are snapped into a dozen pieces.

Emily holds the broken fragments out in her open hands for the rest of her stunned attire to see. “Anyone else have anything they want to say?” she asks, tossing the pieces in a garbage bin.

Personal Wearer - Clothing TF

 

Kimiko stopped to catch her breath, dabbing lightly at her perspiration. Pausing, she adjusted each article of clothing she wore, giving each one its own moment of her total, undivided attention.

As a personal wearer, her reputation depended on being attentive to her clients and their needs. She’d amassed quite a collection of clientele - people willing to pay to be used for an hour or two each week. Each had their reasons for being there - for some, it was the physical intimacy, others were using her to work through issues they had in their human lives, while others merely found a sense of accomplishment in being used as objects that they lacked in their daily lives. A good half were there for fetish reasons. But whatever their individual motivations, they were less important to her than identifying and satisfying their needs.

She wiped her hand off on her black sport’s bra, knowing how much David loved soaking in her sweat. The garment shivered against her breasts. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, hearing an ecstatic squeak as she crushed the sneakers, Sophie, hard against the asphalt with her heels. Placing the water bottle to her lips, she tipped it back, pretending not to notice the orgasmic groan from the inert plastic as the bottle’s fluids spurted down her throat.

Lastly, for what must have been the sixth time that run, she tugged at the pantified young man wedged painfully between her ass cheeks, extracting the overeager, elasticated gentleman with a finger. This was why she preferred older clients. They had a respect for boundaries - her most important boundary being her asshole, which she was convinced the young man was desperate to go spelunking in.

She’d have a word with him after the session. If he couldn’t behave himself, he'd need to find another wearer.

A meek voice made her jump. “Um, Kimiko? Not to be a bother but I think I’m changing back.”

Kimiko looked down. Sure enough, her leggings were rippling and shifting in the way that indicated they were starting the transition back to humanity.

“Mike! I’m so sorry. I must not have set the machine for the full hour,” she exclaimed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine It’s just... that you told me to take my clothes off before you transformed me…”

Michael was agoraphobic, practically a shut-in after lockdown, and had been using outings as a garment as a low-stress way to venture back out into the real world. The last thing he -or her business- needed was him reverting in a public place, butt naked.

“There’s a transformation point over there! Just hold together, okay?”

“I’ll try my best,” the leggings promised, straining to hold its form as she sprinted for the machine. To its credit, her satchel had noticed her panic and already opened wide, practically regurgitating her purse into her hand. “Thanks, Terry.”

Grabbing a loose handful of change, she quickly thumbed coins into the public transformation machine. The slow, clunky interface took an insufferably long time to work through, and her leggings were already turning an alarming shade of human when at last she confirmed her selection. The public transformation device hummed and whirred as it shifted the leggings back into nondescript legging form, and locked them in for another 3 hours.

“So sorry about that, Michael. I won’t charge you for this session.”

“It’s fine. It happens,” the leggings replied brightly. “Disaster averted, right?”

Kimiko huffed a sigh of relief. “Yep. Disaster averted.” With an appreciative pat to Terry, she flung him back over her shoulder and started the jog home.

In the coin reservoir in the belly of the transformation machine, three dollars looked at each other anxiously.

“She’s coming back for us, right?” asked one.

Transcation Excursions - Facatativá

 

In the 17th century, the area of Facatativá in present-day

Colombia was brutally put to the sword by Spanish conquistadors. So the tale goes, as the priestess of Huitaca lay bleeding out, she placed a curse upon the land, so that the invaders would experience the fate of those they had killed.

That night the conquistador slept beneath the open sky. As the silvery light of the moon touched them, they took on the bodies and faces of the slain villagers. When a second party of conquistadors arrived to relieve them, the transformed Spaniards discovered their tongues too had been taken from them. Watching as their former comrades drew swords, they could only plead helplessly in the native tongue in the moments before they were struck down by the men they had once called brothers.

But the curse didn’t stop. Ever since that day, all who sleep there awaken to find their flesh twisted into the shapes of long-dead men and women…

Today the city is a thriving spa town! Drawn by the so-called curse, retirees from across the world throng the streets, staying at one of the many luxurious high-rises that dot the hillside of this once-sleepy village.

By day, guests can enjoy the local culture, experiencing first-hand a forgotten language from their own lips! Try the cuisine, visit pre-Columbian architectural sites, or perhaps even catch a bus tour to visit the spooky, unmarked graves of those unlucky conquistadors.

And at night, our transformed attendees engage in acts that would make Huitaca, the goddess of sexual liberation herself, blush!

Thinking of booking an excursion to Facatativá? Contact us today!

Disclaimer: New bodies will be received by guests upon sleeping within the perimeter of Transcation Excursions Resort and Spa. Transformations are determined at random from a pool of 449 17th century indigenous muisca peoples. Transcation Excursions does not guarantee the age, sex, gender, or any other attribute of the body received by our guests. Transcation Excursions can not be held responsible for any loss or acquisition of age, limbs, hair, tattoos, or sexual organs upon transformation. Transcation Excursions can not be held responsibilities for any pregnancies conceived during or following a stay at the Transcation Excursions Resort and Spa. Transcation Excrusions can not be held responsible for cloudy, stormy, or otherwise moonless weather conditions during your stay. For indemnity purposes, all transformations are considered Acts of God. All transformations are final. 

A Helping Hand

 

When my son came out as gay, I knew I wanted to be supportive of his lifestyle, even if I wasn’t always sure how to go about it. But when things started getting serious with his boyfriend and he admitted he was anxious at never having satisfied or even been with a guy before, I knew it was my time to shine.

Of course I insisted he spend an hour in the autocloset first. A korean cutie so I wouldn't have to look at his face as he practiced. He didn’t appreciate the bra and panties I dressed him in, but I insisted.

"Don't skimp on the tongue. And would it kill you to play with my balls a little?"

Hand on his head, I gently forced his mouth down again and again until I was completely, utterly satisfied 

that he’d mastered deep throating.

Celebrity Culture - Emmy Rossum

It was one of the largest illegal DNA busts the TFPD had made. A criminal gang were running their operation out of a tower block where they were manufacturing and distributing celebrity status - cells stolen, grown, and pumped back into anyone who could pay for it.

The SWAT team entered through the parking garage at the base, heading up, sweeping floor by floor, room by room, past vats of bubbling flesh-coloured goop.

“Watch you dont get that shit on you, rookie,” Daniels growled behind his respiratory. “Unless you want to spend your career as Anne Hathaway.”

The patients and low level technicians administering the treatments were fleeing. The real criminals were fighting back, gunshots echoing down the concrete corridors. The radio channels erupted as resistance was encountered. 

“-got a Downey Junior heading for the roof with-”

“Kardashians have sealed the stairwell. I need gas grenades.”

“Oprah is armed. I repeat, Oprah is armed.”

I kicked in a door and swept the room. Empty, oversized IV bags dangled above a chair in the center of the room.

A half-clothed figure darted past me from the shadows, sprinting for the elevator, trailing an IV drip behind her. She must not have realized we cut the power. I found her desperately thumping at the buttons. She cowered back at the business end of my rifle.

“Miss Rossum, I presume. Hands where I can see them.”

She doesn’t resist as I push her against the wall, patting her pockets until I locate a wallet. One hand pressing her face against cold steel, I flip it open to her driver's license.

Poor guy. Men’s prison wouldn’t be kind to him. He sniffed miserably. “I just wanted to be someone…”

Two floors up, the roar of a machine gun turned my blood to ice. The radio chatter became screams. Shit. Our intel hadn’t mentioned that level of firepower.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” I hissed, shoving the ID back into his hands and sprinting back into the fight.

Celebrity Culture - Alexandra Daddario

 

Another sweaty, obese, aging man shuffles into my back alley office. He looks around the space illuminated by a grimy bulb. Even by the standards of a black market clinic, the place is unsanitary. “This is the place?”
“That entirely depends. How did you find me?”
“A friend recommended you. You did great work on him… Err, her?… him? Gal Gadot?”
I nod. “I remember him. What is it I can do for you?”
Licking his lips, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Reaching into a pocket, he places an autograph book encased in a plastic bag on the table with the air of a man holding a holy artefact. The looping signature of ‘Alexander Daddario’ is scrawled on it.
“She brushed her hand against the paper when she signed it.”
I sniff. “That's it? Not exactly much to go off.”
“I’ll pay any price.”
Ugh. Another super-fan. I pull the autograph book closer. The paper is fibrous, not gloss - it might have captured a skin cell or two. “Assuming nobody else touched this other than her - not your wife, not your cat-... it’ll take me three weeks to culture the cells. Don’t show your face around here until then."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I strap the client’s arms to the chair before the transfusion - not for any safety reason, it simply stops them fondling their half-formed breasts before they're done. I hook the thick tube into his jugular vein and hang the 5-liter sacks of cultured cells from hooks in ceiling. Lastly I kick an empty plastic bucket under the chair.
“For when you need to evacuate… this,” I said with a gesture at his beer-bloated middle-age spread.
Around the fifth hour, the client begins to groan, clutching his cramping stomach, and the bucket starts to fill. Each hour, the filled bucket is taken and emptied. Slowly the celebrity cells infiltrate his flesh, forcing out the old cells via the same orifice as any other waste. Little by little, the middle-aged mess shits himself away, skin hanging loose off his bones. Dark hair sprouts from his bald scalp, patchy, ugly tufts at first, but soon growing into thick locks.
At the 37th hour, his skin softens, his complexion smoothening. The excess hanging off him starts to contract tighter about his budding breasts and ass. The delectable shape beneath becomes evident.
At the 60th hour, I pour the last bucket of him down the drain. There is one more Alexandra Daddario in the world. Two seconds after removing the restraints, he's already groping his breasts, his eyes alight with lust. I hand him clothes, if only for the satisfaction of seeing him remove them later.
"So about payment..." he croaks, clutching his throat at his new soprano. "How much?"
"'Any price', you said?"
What I’ve done is highly illegal. Not only is it outlawed tech, the charges of identity theft could put me away for decades. The sensible option is to take the money and run.
But he knows that too. The police are no longer a recourse for him.
“You won’t be paying with money.”

The Donor

 

I sit in the living room, in the unfamiliar body of Sarah, trying to process what is happening as the lighting fixtures jingle and the hard thud of the headboard against the bedroom wall upstairs reverberates through the house.

My friends Claire and Sarah had been trying to conceive for years. After exhausting their finances on artificial insemination, they’d approached me. A trip to the Swap Clinic would cost them a fraction of the cost of another round of IVF. They needed my body - part of it anyway. I’d set my awkwardness aside to help friends in need.

I’d expected the conception to be a clinical process. They’ve been going at it for two hours.

Who knew a lesbian would have a breeding fetish? I think as Claire loudly begs her girlfriend to blow her load inside her womb. There comes a long, satisfied grunt as Sarah unloads my cock inside Claire with a deep, male "fuuuck". Does my voice really sound like that?

So that was it then?

“We can go again in a few minutes if you like,” Claire’s breathless moan comes through the ceiling.

“I hope you’re not getting a taste for this, babe,” Sarah laughs in my voice.

I make myself comfortable. It’s going to be a long night.