May

The photo is still open on your phone when the printer finishes.

You'd scrolled past it three times before you let yourself stop. It's a shot you took last week, a Thursday, from the far end of the student union's second-floor balcony, the one that overlooks the atrium. May had been standing near the coffee kiosk, mid-conversation with two of her friends, and the light from the tall windows had fallen across her in a way that made you lift your phone before you could think about whether you should.

She's wearing a short-sleeved charcoal grey wrap dress, soft jersey material with subtle seam detailing running down the sides, the hem hitting just below her knees. The deep V-neckline plunges between her breasts without being vulgar, just confident, just enough. A small tie knot cinches at her waist, pulling the fabric taut across her hips. Her blonde hair is half-up, half-down, small braids woven along the crown on both sides like a delicate little diadem, face-framing strands left loose at the front. The rest spills over her back in a soft, natural wave. You'd zoomed in on the braids later, in the privacy of your flat, marveling at the precision. Someone had spent time on her. Someone always did.

That photo. That's the one you chose. Your thumb had moved before your brain caught up, and now—

The skinsuit lies on your desk.

It's not a sheet anymore. It's a person. Flat, empty, hollow, but unmistakably May. The charcoal dress drapes across the desk's edge. The blonde braids loop around an absent skull. The face is slack, eyes closed, lips parted slightly, like sleep. Along the spine runs a vertical opening, a seam so fine it looks like a shadow until you tilt your head and see the faint lip of two edges waiting to be joined. The material is warm. Not the warmth of something recently extruded, but the warmth of skin, alive, blood underneath, even though you know there's nothing underneath at all.

The app on your phone glows softly. "Print complete. Your new skin awaits."

You stand there in your boxers and a hole-ridden t-shirt, because you'd already started undressing before you knew what you were doing, and your erection presses hard against the fabric. You're shaking. Not from fear, not exactly. From the sheer, dizzying impossibility of the thing on your desk.

You pull the t-shirt over your head. Step out of your boxers. Your cock bobs free, flushed and slick at the tip, and you're suddenly self-conscious in a way you never are alone. The suit on the desk doesn't care. She—it—just waits.

You reach for the opening along the spine.

The seam gives under your fingers, warm and pliable, and you peel it open with both hands. The inside is smooth, faintly damp, the color of the underside of a mushroom. There's a smell you can't place—not chemical, not organic—like the air after a summer storm, ozone and heat and something green.

Your first foot slides in up to the ankle.

It's tight. Not uncomfortable, not yet. More like a wetsuit, or a compression sock, the kind of pressure that feels purposeful. The suit swallows your calf, then your knee, then your thigh, and every inch of skin it passes over tingles and warms. You feel the hair on your legs smooth out, the texture of your own coarse follicles softening into something finer, lighter. Your toes wiggle into the suit's toes and there's a moment of anatomical confusion—your feet aren't shaped like feet anymore, they're shaped like May's feet, narrower, arches higher, the second toe a little longer than the big one in a way that makes you stumble.

You catch the desk edge with one hand. Fuck. That's weird.

The other leg follows. Same process, same tingling warmth, same bizarre recalibration of skeleton and muscle. Your thighs are thicker now, the muscle distribution different, your calves longer and leaner. When you plant both feet on the floor, your center of gravity has shifted—you're standing more on the balls of your feet, your hips sitting lower, wider, and the angle of your ankles feels like someone else's ankles.

"Okay," you breathe. Your voice is still yours. For now.

The pelvis is next.

You pull the suit up over your hips and the transformation hits you like a wave. Your hips widen, flare, soften. The suit's ass is perky and round and it settles over your ass with a small, wet sound, and suddenly your butt is filled out in a way it has never been in twenty-two years. Your erection—still there, still hard, straining—presses awkwardly against the suit's front panel. And then, as you pull the suit up over your abdomen, that erection begins to change.

It doesn't hurt. That's the strangest part. It's like watching a candle melt. The shaft softens, flattens, folds inward. The head draws back into your body with a gentle suction, and the skin fuses, smoothes, opens. You feel the sensation of being touched in a place that wasn't there thirty seconds ago—a slick, warm, sensitive slit where your cock used to be. Your balls rise, tuck, vanish, and the seam of the suit smooths over the space like nothing was ever there. A pussy. A real, honest-to-god pussy, wet and warm and yours now, and you can feel the inner lips against each other, the curl of the clit hood, the deep hollow of the canal.

You make a sound. Not a word. Just a sound.

The suit keeps going. Your waist narrows. Your ribcage shifts, the bones in your chest flexing and re-forming into a smaller, lighter, more delicate cage. Your shoulders draw inward. Your collarbones soften. Your arms slide into the suit's arms and your hands—your clever, calloused, soldering-iron hands—become May's hands, small and soft and manicured, nails neat, no calluses anywhere. Your fingers shrink, the ring finger slightly longer now, and when you flex them they move with a fluidity you've never felt, like your joints have been oiled from the inside.

The breasts come last.

You lift the suit's neckline over your shoulders, and the two halves of the chest settle over your own flat pectorals. There's a brief, muffled heaviness—your own breast tissue, sparse and soft—and then the suit molds around it, and suddenly there's weight on your chest. Real weight. Two full, round, high breasts hanging from your ribcage, perky with that slight outward flare that only young women have, the nipples small and pale pink, hard already, sensitive from the suit's warmth. Every time you shift your shoulders, they move. Every time you breathe, they rise and fall. You look down and see cleavage, a deep V of soft skin between two curves, exactly the shape you've spent years watching from across lecture halls.

You reach up with your new hands and cup them.

The sensation is—there's no word for it. It's like touching someone else's body, except you feel it. You feel your own palms against your own breasts, but your palms are May's palms and your breasts are May's breasts, and every nerve in the chain of flesh is singing. You press down gently and the tissue gives, firm but yielding, the glandular structure dense and healthy, and your nipples stiffen against your palms and a small, involuntary sound escapes you.

"Oh," you say. And the voice is still yours.

You pull the suit's head over your own.

The face molds around you like a second skull, warm and wet, and for a moment your vision goes dark. Then it clears, and the world looks different. The colors are richer. The edges are sharper. You blink and feel long eyelashes brush your cheeks. Your lips are fuller, plumper, and when you run your tongue over them you taste the faint sweetness of lip balm that isn't yours. Your tongue is smaller. Your teeth are straighter, whiter, and when you probe them with your tongue you feel the slight roughness of a retainer's memory. Your jaw moves differently. Your ears are pierced. Your hair—her hair—falls around your face in that half-up style, the braids woven tight against your scalp, the loose strands brushing your neck and shoulders.

You reach behind you for the seam along the spine. It closes with a soft, wet zip, sealing you in completely.

You stand in your flat. You are Marty. But you are also May.

And the first thing you notice is that everything feels different.

The air on your arms. The weight of your hair. The way your feet distribute your weight. The small, constant motion of your breasts every time you breathe. The empty, hollow warmth between your legs where a cock used to be. You shift your hips experimentally and feel the lips of your new pussy press together, sliding slickly, and a throb of sensation runs up into your belly.

You walk to your bedroom.

It's only fifteen feet, but you have to learn how to walk all over again. Your hips swing. Your arms move differently against your sides. Your center of gravity is lower, wider, and your stride is shorter, more of a sway. Your new tits bounce gently with each step and you feel them in a way you've never felt anything on your own body. The fabric of the dress brushes against your thighs and you feel it on skin that's softer, more sensitive, the hair on your legs gone completely. You feel air on the back of your neck and realize it's just your hair moving.

You reach your bedroom mirror, the full-length one on the back of the door, and you stop.

May looks back at you.

Her face. Her hair. Her body. The charcoal dress hugging every curve, the V-neck plunging, the tie knot at her waist, the hem brushing her knees. She stands with a slight sway, one hand on her hip—you did that, unconsciously, and it looks natural. She's beautiful. She is, objectively, one of the most beautiful women you've ever seen, and she's you now.

You lift one hand and touch your cheek. May touches her cheek. You tilt your head and May tilts her head. You smile and May smiles, and it's a real smile, not the practiced one she uses in the union. It's a smile of pure, giddy disbelief.

You laugh. Her laugh. A bright, clear sound you've heard across the cafeteria a hundred times.

Then you stop laughing and look at yourself properly.

You reach for the tie at your waist. Your fingers—her fingers—find the knot and pull, and the wrap dress loosens. You pull the fabric open, and the dress falls apart like a robe, exposing the skin underneath, and you see May's underwear, and the sight of it makes your breath catch.

It's not plain. It's simple, but it's not plain. The bra is a pale nude lace, delicate, almost invisible against her skin, the cups low and rounded, the straps thin and adjustable. The panties match, a simple bikini cut, also pale nude lace, the waistband low on her hips. No thong. No frills. Nothing that screams "look at me." Just good, expensive underwear she chose for herself, the kind of underwear a woman wears when she's not planning to show anyone, but wants to feel good in her own skin. There's a small, almost imperceptible seam along the side of the bra, the sign of a good fit, and the lace has the faintest sheen, catching the bedroom light.

And the body underneath.

Your memories—her memories—file into your head like cards being dealt. You know her skincare routine: cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF every morning, the tiny scar on her knee from a fall when she was twelve. You know her workout routine: forty-five minutes of mat Pilates in her flat three mornings a week, a fifteen-minute ab circuit she does while watching reality TV, a standing leg routine she found on YouTube and has done so many times she could do it in her sleep. You know she eats clean-ish, but not obsessively, and she loves pasta. You know she keeps a small notebook of her measurements and checks them once a week, not out of vanity but because she's been the same size since she was nineteen and she wants to stay that way. You know she gets her nails done every three weeks and her hair highlighted every eight. You know her body is the result of maintenance, not luck.

And you know something else, too.

You know that May has sex. A lot.

The memories flood in, vivid and uninvited, and you stand there in front of the mirror with your dress open and your panties visible and you watch her life play out behind your eyes. The lacrosse player from last spring, in his truck after a party, her back pressed against the door, his hands fumbling at her bra. The older guy from the bar downtown, mid-thirties, a good conversationalist for exactly one hour, and then his mouth on her neck in the back of a taxi. The guy from her stats class, funny, sweet, too eager, came in four minutes and she never texted him again. The married one—the memory comes with a sharp edge, and you wince—she didn't know he was married, and when she found out she blocked his number and never looked back. The stranger at the wedding in the Hamptons, the one whose name she never got, the one whose mouth between her legs was the best she'd ever had. The two guys at once, one of many threesomes, in a hotel room in the city, and the memory is hazy and warm and she doesn't regret it. The coworker from the summer internship. The guy who fixed her car. The guy she met at a rooftop party who was a terrible kisser but had beautiful hands.

She doesn't care about the intimacy. That's what her memories tell you, clear as day. She doesn't chase love. She doesn't want a boyfriend. She wants the pleasure, the rush, the way her body feels when someone else is inside it. And she wants the doors her beauty opens—the free drinks, the better tables, the internships, the grades that come easier when a professor is distracted. She's not cynical about it. She just knows what she has and she uses it, and she doesn't feel bad about it at all.

Most of the time she lets the man do the work. She lies back, or she bends over, or she gets on her knees, and she lets them have her. She doesn't need to perform. She just needs to feel. And the one thing she hates—the one thing that will kill her mood instantly—is a man who cums too early. She hates the damp aftermath, the apologetic smile, the half-hard reassurance that he'll be ready in a minute. She hates it more than bad breath. She hates it more than bad kissing. Because she gave her time and her body and she got nothing, and May does not give her body away for nothing.

You blink, and the memories settle.

You're still standing in front of the mirror, dress open, underwear visible, and your pussy is wet. You can feel it. The lace of your panties is damp against your lips, a warm, slick pressure that you've never felt before, and the sensation is so specific, so insistent, that you have to press your thighs together just to manage it.

You look at yourself in the mirror and slowly let the dress fall off your shoulders.

It puddles at your feet. You step out of it. The air on your skin is cool, but your new body runs warm, and you watch your nipples harden under the lace.

You turn around.

Your ass in the mirror fills the frame. It's high and round and firm, the kind of ass that makes jeans look like they were designed for you. The pale lace panties cut across it in a clean line, and the curve of your buttocks below the fabric is smooth, unmarked, tanned slightly from the Fiji trip her family took in March. Your thighs are lean but not skinny, with the slight muscular definition of someone who works out regularly. Your back is smooth, the fabric of your bra band crossing at the middle, and above it your shoulder blades move cleanly under your skin.

You reach behind your back and unhook the bra.

It's easy. Too easy. Your fingers know what to do without being told. The hooks pop and the band loosens, and you slide the straps down your arms and let the bra fall to the floor. You turn back to face the mirror and your tits swing free.

They're perfect. Full, round, high on your chest, the nipples small and pink and hard, sitting maybe an inch above the crease of your underboob. The skin is smooth and pale, a few faint freckles near the top of the right one, nothing else. They're not huge, maybe a C-cup, just enough to fill a hand, enough to bounce when you walk, enough to make a dress look good. You've seen them in photos, in the low-cut tops she wears, but you've never seen them bare, and now they're yours, and you can't stop looking.

You cup them with both hands. They're so warm and soft on top and firm underneath, and when you squeeze gently, your nipples press into your palms and a jolt of pleasure runs straight down into your clit. You lift them, one at a time, and watch yourself in the mirror, and it's the most surreal thing you've ever done. You weep, almost. Not sadness. Just the sheer, overwhelming strangeness of it.

Then you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and pull them down.

They come off slick and warm, and when you straighten back up, you see your pussy in the mirror for the first time.

It's shaven. Completely bare. The lips are small and neat, the outer lips plump and smooth, the inner lips tucked in, the clit hood visible as a small, hooded bump above the slit. The skin around it is pale and even, no razor burn, no stubble, just soft. Clearly she waxes. The mound above is smooth and flat, the crease of your thighs soft and pale. You spread your legs slightly and the lips part and you see a flash of pink, wet and glistening, and the sight makes your whole body clench.

You reach down and spread your pussy with two fingers.

The sensation is indescribable. The cool air on the wet skin. The stretch of the lips. The little pearl of your clit peeking out from its hood. You touch it—just the tip of your finger—and your knees buckle. A sound escapes you, a high, breathy noise, and your hips jerk forward involuntarily. The pleasure is different from anything you've ever felt. It's not localized. It radiates. It starts in your clit and spreads up into your belly and down into your thighs and out into your fingertips.

You turn around and spread your ass.

Your cheeks part easily, soft and pale, and you see the small, tight pucker of your asshole, untouched, unused, a tiny rosebud of pink set between your cheeks. You've seen it in porn. You've fantasized about it. But you've never seen it on yourself, and the sight of May's pristine, untouched asshole makes your stomach flip. She's never had anything there. Her memories confirm it. She's curious, sometimes, in the privacy of her own mind, but she's never let anyone near it.

You straighten up and look at yourself again. Naked. May. Blonde. Beautiful. Your tits rising with each breath, your pussy wet and open, your legs long and smooth.

You want to touch yourself.

God, you want to touch yourself.

You stand in front of the mirror, naked, and your hand drifts down your stomach, and you think about where to do this. The bed? The flat is yours, but the bed is still covered in the laundry you never put away. The shower? The shower has a detachable head, and her memories tell you she's done it there before, many times, leaning against the tile with one foot on the edge of the tub. The desk? The chair?

You look at the mirror and decide...