A new update

Information floods the screen before you can tap a single thumbnail.

The Imprimatur app doesn't ask permission. It simply unfolds—a new panel sliding up from the bottom edge, white text on black, clean and clinical. You're still in your mother's body. Her thumb hovers over the glass, her wedding ring catching the light. The printer hums in the corner, patient, waiting.

ADDITIONAL FUNCTIONALITY DETECTED: PROGENITOR PROTOCOL

You blink. Your mother's eyes. The words sit there, glowing faintly, like they've been waiting for you to be ready.

You scroll.

All skinsuits are capable of autonomous animation through the introduction of the Primary User's genetic material. When the Primary User ejaculates into the interior cavity of a skinsuit via the dorsal seam, the suit will activate. The resulting entity—designated as a Fulgurite—will possess a complete copy of the Primary User's consciousness, memories, and personality matrix. The Fulgurite is, in all measurable ways, you.

Your breath catches. Her breath. The sound is small in the quiet room.

You keep reading.

The Fulgurite inherits the skinsuit's physical form, including its neural architecture and procedural memory. Consequently, while the Fulgurite's core identity is identical to your own, its behavioral patterns, mannerisms, vocal cadence, and emotional responses will be filtered through the persona encoded in the skinsuit. A Fulgurite wearing the Janice skin will move like Janice, speak like Janice, and react to stimuli as Janice would—but its decisions, its desires, its loyalty, will remain yours.

You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your mother's weight. You don't look away from the screen.

The Fulgurite is incapable of acting against the Primary User's explicit commands. This is not a matter of obedience training or psychological conditioning—the prohibition is woven into the Fulgurite's fundamental architecture. A command from you is not a request. It is a directive that overwrites all other impulses. The Fulgurite may possess the skinsuit's memories, its sense of humor, its preferences for food and music and sexual position—but it cannot disobey you. It would not want to disobey you. Its will is yours.

Your thumb scrolls faster.

Duration: indefinite. The Fulgurite does not degrade. It does not require sustenance or rest beyond what the skinsuit's physical form demands. It will persist until you choose to deactivate it by reopening the dorsal seam. At that point, the Fulgurite's consciousness returns to you, its memories—all the experiences it accumulated during its activation—uploading seamlessly into your own mind. You will remember everything it did, everything it felt, as if you had been there yourself.

You may activate multiple Fulgurites simultaneously. There is no observed limit. Each one operates independently, awaiting your commands, executing your will. They are you, distributed across any number of bodies, any number of lives.

Note: The Fulgurite cannot reproduce. Only the Primary User can generate new Fulgurites. This ensures singular continuity of consciousness.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

Then you laugh.

It comes out as your mother's laugh—low, breathy, a little disbelieving. You press her palm to her mouth and the sound muffles, then fades. The implication settles over you like a second skin.

You could be anywhere. Anyone. You could send a clone of yourself to campus as Cathy, to a party as May, to a family dinner as your own mother. You could stay here, in this bed, and they would come to you. They would bring their borrowed bodies and their borrowed lives, and they would do whatever you asked. They would do it because they wanted to, because their wanting was just a mirror of your own.

No one would ever know. There would be no risk, no rejection, no awkward fumbling in the dark. Just bodies that belong to you, moving through the world that never noticed you, carrying a mind that is yours and yours alone.

You drop the phone onto the sheets. It bounces once and settles. Your mother's hands are trembling.

You stand.

The mirror is still angled toward the bed, and you catch your reflection—her reflection—mid-turn. The blonde hair, the tired blue eyes, the heavy breasts swaying as you move. You look at her and you think, I could make you real.

A shiver runs down your mother's spine. You reach back and find the seam at the base of her scalp. The slit is faint, almost invisible—a small parting in the material that feels like skin and hair and skin again. You hook your finger into it and pull.

The suit opens with a wet, quiet sound. Cool air rushes against your real skin, your real body, the narrow shoulders and thin chest beneath. You peel the suit down your arms, your torso, your hips. It comes away reluctantly, clinging to the sweat of your exertions, and you have to shake it loose at your ankles.

You are yourself again. Skinny. Pale. Forgettable.

Your cock is so hard it aches.

You stand there for a moment, naked and shivering, the mother suit pooled in your hands like a discarded cocoon. It's warm still—your body heat trapped in its fibers—and it smells of her, of you, of musk and something floral underneath. You lift it to your face, press the crotch to your nose, and inhale. The scent fills your lungs. Then you lay it out on the bed.

You do it carefully, deliberately. You smooth the legs flat, arrange the arms at her sides, turn her face up toward the ceiling. She looks like she's sleeping. Like she's waiting for someone to climb inside her and wake her up.

Your hand wraps around your cock without thinking. You're leaking already, a bead of precum welling at the tip. You smear it with your thumb and stroke once, twice, watching the rise and fall of your own chest in the mirror.

This changes everything.

You don't have to go anywhere. You don't have to risk anything. Every person you've ever wanted—every woman who never looked at you twice, every smile that was polite and nothing more—is just a photo away. A suit away. You could fill your flat with them. You could have a harem of borrowed bodies, all of them animated by pieces of your own mind, all of them eager to serve. You could wake up tomorrow as someone else, send your real self to work, and spend the day in someone's bed, in someone's body, doing things that no one would ever trace back to you.

The possibilities pile up like snow, burying the last of your hesitation.

But who?

Cathy. The star athlete. The one you've wanted since the first week of freshman year, when she laughed at something Matt said and her hair caught the sun and you forgot how to breathe. She's kind. She's beautiful. She has a big perky ass and nice B-cup tits and a boyfriend who loves her, who you bet does amazing things with her behind closed doors. You could print her suit. You could feel what it's like to be wanted like that.

May. The queen bee. The blonde with the perfect body and the perfect smile and the way she owns every room she enters. You could know what it feels like to have everyone's attention, to have people hanging on your words, to be the one who decides who's in and who's out.

Mara. Dan's sister. The one with the tight runner's body and the light brunette hair and the confidence that comes from being young and fit and adored. You've seen her through Dan's memories, in a towel, in a bikini, in a sports bra bent over to tie her shoes. You've imagined what it would be like to touch her, to hold her, to have her hold you. She's Dan's sister. She's off-limits in ways the others aren't. But the boundaries don't mean what they used to.

Kimberly. Your own sister.

The thought arrives before you can stop it. You push it away, but it comes back, softer this time. She's two years younger. Same light brown hair, same glasses. You've been protective of her, always. Fended off the boys who looked at her wrong. Scared away the ones who got too close. But you've also seen the photos Dan saved, the ones he stared at in the dark. The ones that made him stroke his cock and think about her bra strap, her thigh, her mouth. And you've seen her Instagram, the summer dresses, the tank tops, the laugh caught mid-frame.

You could print her. You could bring her to life and have her tell you that she wants you. Not as a brother. As something else.

Your cock twitches in your hand.

And there's Janice, still. The first. The one who started all of this. You could bring her back and do all the things you imagined and more. You could make her real enough to talk to, to hold, to fall asleep beside.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a notification—something mundane, a battery alert, a reminder. You don't look at it. You don't need to.

The printer hums again. It's waiting for your choice. The app is still open, the camera roll still loaded, every face you've ever captured staring up at you from the grid.

Your hand slows. Your breathing settles. You look down at your mother's empty body, laid out on the sheets like an offering, and you look at your own soft cock, still slick with your own precum, and you realize that the luxury of choice is already making you dizzy.

The person you lose your virginity to. The first one. That's the one you have to choose now. The rest will follow, you know that. The rest will be easier. But the first will be a statement, a message to yourself about what this gift is for.

You stand in the middle of your room, naked, still hard, still hungry, still undecided.

The printer doesn't hum louder. It doesn't suggest. It just waits.

And you wait with it, standing on the edge of something you can't see the bottom of.