Test Subject L-01

The walk back to the science building was a blur of sensory dissonance. To any passerby, I looked like a composed professor—a man lost in thought about his research. But inside, my skin was still buzzing from her touch, and my mind was playing a loop of that final, filthy moment. Every step felt heavy; even with my pants zipped up, the phantom sensation of being deep inside her, driving against those tight, slick walls, made me walk with a slightly different gait than usual.

In my hand, gripped tightly so as not to let anyone see, was the prize: her panties. They were still warm-ish from her body heat and carried that intoxicating scent of musk and sex. I tucked them into my lab coat pocket just as the heavy doors to the faculty wing swung open.

As soon as I stepped into the lab, the familiar hum of computers and the sterile, cool air hit me. But the atmosphere wasn't exactly "professional."

Marc, my twenty-four-year-old research assistant, was already at his station. He was a bright, eager kid—always too energetic for the early hours—but today, he seemed even more keyed up than usual. As soon as he saw me enter, he straightened up in his ergonomic chair, his eyes snapping to mine with an almost hungry intensity.

"Professor! You're back," Marc said, though his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. He leaned forward, peering at me over the edge of his desk. "You were gone for a while. Everything okay? You look... flushed."

He wasn't wrong. My face was probably still a shade of pink, and there was an undeniable glow to my skin that couldn't be explained by mere walking.

I walked toward my own desk, trying to maintain a level head while the memory of Lena’s voice—“Enjoy the memory, you pig”—echoed in my ears. Marc watched every movement, his gaze tracking me with an eagerness that was almost predatory itself. He was a keen observer, and he knew when something significant had happened.

I reached my desk and pulled the iBod from my pocket. To anyone else, it looked like a high-end piece of research equipment—a sleek, advanced handheld device. But to me, it was the most powerful tool in the building.

Marc’s eyes widened as he saw the hardware. "Is that... the prototype? The matter-reconstruction unit?" He stood up, drifting closer with the curiosity of a golden retriever seeing a tennis ball for the first time. "Wait, professor, did you just get back from testing it in the field?"

"Something like that," I said, my voice still a little breathy. The weight of her panties in my pocket was a constant, grounding pressure. "It’s more effective than we anticipated."

I looked at the device's interface. The scan-data for 'Lena' was crisp, perfect. It wasn't just an image; it was a blueprint of every curve, every flush, and that specific, naughty glint in her eyes.

"Wait," Marc said, his brow furrowing as he watched me tap the screen. "Theoretically, the user can assume the molecular structure of the scanned subject... but you're a man. You'd need to trigger the full-body reconfiguration."

He was right.

"Watch closely, Marc," I said, a mischievousness bubbling up in me that shouldn't have been possible for a man who had just finished a 'study session' in a bathroom stall.

I tapped the Transform command on the screen. "Initiating matter-reconstruction: Subject L-01."

The iBod began to hum, emitting a soft, pulsing light that filled the lab. The air around me began to shimmer and warp as my atoms were commanded to rearrange themselves accordinging to Lena's data.

Marc’s jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit his desk. "Professor? You're... you're glowing!"

The transition was violent but smooth. My height shifted, shrinking slightly as my bones restructured. My shoulders narrowed while my hips surged outward with a sudden, heavy weight. The sensation of my suit being replaced by the soft fabric of her clothing—the sheer, tight knit of her top and the delicate lace of her underwear—was almost enough to make me lose focus.

The transformation finished with a soft pop of displaced air.

I stood there, but not as Walter. I was exactly as she had been in that stall. My legs were spread wide in that same brazen posture; my heavy, flushed breasts were heaving under the thin fabric; and since we were replicating her exact state at the moment of our departure, my—her—pussy felt delightfully empty and slightly sore from the sheer **** of our exit.

I looked exactly like her: a magnificent vision of carnal triumph, sitting in an invisible chair with that same cheeky grin.

Marc stood frozen, his eyes bulging out of his head. He looked at me—at Lena—and then he looked at the empty space where a middle-aged professor used to be. His face went from confusion to utter bewilderment, and finally to a deep, frantic shade of crimson.

"P-p-p..." Marc stammered, his voice cracking like a teenager's. He was staring intensely at my—her—glistening, wide-spread thighs. "Professor? Is that... are you... her?"

I looked down at the empty space between my legs, then back up at him through Lena’s eyes. I raised my right hand and flashed him a cheeky peace sign, just as she had done for the camera.

"Don't look so shocked, Marc," I said—but it was her voice, husky and playful, vibrating from my throat. "I told you... it was more effective than we anticipated."

Marc let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, his eyes darting between my face and the empty space where I’d just stood as a man. He looked like he didn't know whether to call a priest or grab a camera.