The next morning

Light seeps through your cheap blinds, orange and invasive, cutting across your face. You stir, and the first thing you notice is the weight on your chest.

Not your chest. Her chest.

You're still Janice. Still wearing her skin. Still naked, tangled in damp sheets that smell like last night's sweat and sex and the faint wood-smell of the rolling pin that's wedged somewhere between the mattress and your hip.

Your eyes open. The ceiling is yours—the crack shaped like a lightning bolt, the water stain in the corner—but the body you're in is not. For a long, groggy moment, you don't understand. Your brain is slow, fumbling for context. Then the memories crash in.

The printer. The app. The way your fingers found her wetness in the mirror. The rolling pin. The orgasms. Three of them.

Your hand rises before you've fully decided to move it. It lands on your breast—Janice's breast—and you squeeze, testing the weight. The flesh yields under your palm, heavy and warm. The nipple is already stiff against the cool morning air. You roll it between your thumb and forefinger, and a small shiver runs through you, a ghost of last night's pleasure.

You lie there, touching yourself, thinking.

Uni. You're supposed to have a lecture at ten. Thermodynamics, maybe. Or Differential Equations. The thought feels distant, irrelevant, like a worry belonging to someone else. You're not going. That much is certain. You can't walk across campus like this, knowing what powers you could continue testing out instead.

No. Today is for decisions.

Your hand slides down her stomach, over the soft curve of her belly, through the coarse hair between her thighs. You're still wet from last night. Still slick. Your fingers find the entrance, and you press gently, just a single finger, testing. The walls grip you, sensitive and swollen.

You pull out.

Not now. You have to think.

You sit up, and the sheets fall away. Janice's breasts sway with the motion, heavy and loose. Her thighs are sticky, marked with the evidence of everything you did. The rolling pin is there, half-hidden under a fold of sheet. You pick it up, turn it over in your hands. The wood is stained, faintly darker at the tip.

You set it aside.

Your feet find the floor. The cold is a shock against your soles, grounding you. You stand, wobbling slightly, and walk to the bathroom. The mirror shows you Janice—tired, used, her hair a mess, her lips slightly swollen. She looks like a woman who's been thoroughly fucked. You hold her gaze for a moment, then reach behind your head.

Your fingers find the seam at the back of the scalp, invisible but present. You pinch it, pull, and the suit begins to peel away.

The sensation is strange. The reverse of last night. The suit loosens around your face, and you feel your own features emerging beneath it, your own smaller nose, your own thinner lips. You pull the hood forward, and Janice's hair slides off your scalp. The air hits your real skin, cool and familiar.

You work the suit down over your shoulders, and Janice's breasts lift away from your chest, leaving your own flat, bony torso exposed. The transition is jarring—the weight gone, the softness gone, replaced by the sharp angles of your male body. You push the suit down your arms, and your hands emerge, longer, bonier, the knuckles more prominent.

The suit pools at your waist. You step out of it, and your legs are back, skinny and pale, the hair you've always had. Your cock is there too, already hard, standing upright against your stomach.

You look at the suit. It lies on the floor, a hollow shell, Janice's face staring up at the ceiling, her body limp and empty. It's still warm.

You pick it up.

The material is soft, pliable, almost alive in your hands. You carry it to the bed and spread it out, arranging it carefully. Janice's arms at her sides. Her legs together. Her breasts settle into their natural position, the nipples still slightly stiff.

You stand next to the bed, looking down at her. At it.

Your cock is painfully hard. You wrap your hand around it—your own hand, your own familiar grip—and you stroke once, slowly.

The sensation is different. Muted. The pleasure is there, but it's localized, contained, nothing like the full-body waves you felt last night. Your cock is small in your hand, thinner than the rolling pin, shorter than the fingers you pushed inside Janice's body. You always knew you caught some bad luck regarding the size of your dick, but Janice's memories confirmed just how small yours is.

You stroke again, and the memories surface.

Janice's mouth on David's cock. The way she looked up at him, her eyes watering, her throat relaxed. The weight of him on her tongue.

Your hand moves faster.

Liam's hands on her hips. The way he filled her, stretched her, pressed against that spot inside her that made her see stars.

Your breath is quickening. Your hips are thrusting into your fist.

The shy intern on his knees. Janice's fingers in his hair. The way she moaned.

You're close already. Too close. It's been—what, thirty seconds? Maybe a minute? Pathetic. That's what it is. You remember what you learned last night, the way Janice's body could build pleasure slowly, draw it out, sustain it for minutes before cresting. Your own body has none of that control. None of that depth.

The orgasm hits you like a sneeze. A sharp, sudden release, a few weak pulses, and then it's over. Your cum lands on Janice's stomach, a thin, watery streak across her skin.

You stand there, breathing hard, your hand still wrapped around your softening cock.

You look at the mess you've made.

Janice's body, spread out on your bed, now marked with your cum. The skin is smeared, the white fluid already cooling against the material. You can't wear that again. Not like this.

You grab your phone. The Imprimatur app is still there, the icon plain and unassuming. You open it, and a new menu appears: "Maintenance & Care."

You scroll. There's a section labeled "Dissolution Protocol."

The instructions are simple. A mixture of warm water, white vinegar, and baking soda. Common household items. The suit will dissolve completely, leaving no trace. The clothes too. You can print a new one whenever you want.

Relief washes over you.

You go to the kitchen. The bucket is under the sink, a plastic thing you use for mopping. You fill it with warm water, add a cup of vinegar, a handful of baking soda. The mixture fizzes and bubbles, releasing a sharp, clean smell.

You carry the bucket to the bedroom. You pick up Janice's suit—it's still warm, still soft—and you lower it into the solution.

The reaction is immediate. The suit begins to dissolve, the edges curling, the material turning translucent, then liquid. It happens in seconds. The water turns cloudy, then clear again. Janice's face is the last thing to go, her features softening, her eyes dissolving into the mixture.

She's gone.

You pour the liquid down the kitchen sink. The drain swallows it without complaint. You rinse the bucket, put it back under the sink.

You stand in your kitchen, naked, your own body back, your own skin clean. The morning light is brighter now, filling the flat with a pale, indifferent glow.

You have the whole day ahead of you.