© Copyright 2017 - Coppelia - Used by permission
Storycodes: M/m; drug; transform; shave; depilate; bodymod; surgery; M2f; intubate; liquid; plasticizer; mannequin; display; store-window; objectify; stuck; cons; X
One night, he who I call my lover came to me as I slept, and penetrated me with a needle of exquisite length. The shock of its entry brought me awake even as my lover's drug begun its work. Helpless, I gazed through the darkness into the face of my fate. He spoke then, in the same, soft, tender voice I had heard so many nights before:
"You know that you can't move, don't you? Not so as a fingertip. Even now your breath becomes shallow, the rise and fall of your chest slighter; so slight it scarcely seems you live. But you do live, don't you?"
As he spoke, he traced the contours of my chest with his lovely fingers, circled my nipples, ran a palm teasingly my sides, flexed, and reached unhurriedly for my groin. Every touch registered: I could feel the shape and weight of my balls cradled in his hand, feel that hand's warmth, the eddying of his breath as he spoke. Everything, distinctly, yet at a remove, as if I was already withdrawing from the fragile frontiers of my newly immobile form. 'Self' now centred behind eyes and ears, a spark in the darkness of the room, as I awoke to my new dawning passivity. I lived, drew faint breath, and that was all.
"It's important that you do live, my darling. What I have one tonight is only a beginning, for both of us. I shall remake you and you will help me do it."
He leant forward and kissed me on my frozen lips.
"I love you."
Firm fingers reached up, and gently closed my eyes.
Perhaps I slept. Perhaps he drugged me again. In any event, I had no awareness of time passing. I had no dreams. Simply: it as dark; it was light again. And I was staring up at myself.
Perhaps the torpor his drug had induced in my body brought a similar effect upon my mind. I only know that I felt no surprise at suddenly seeing myself thus: naked, laid out with arms by my sides, face up on a brilliant white table in a brilliant white room. Some small part of my mind calmly noted that in fact I was looking up into a full length mirror set on the ceiling. Mystery solved. My lover leaned forward into the vision he had just granted me, and smiled.
"Now we begin."
First he shaved me - face, chest, armpits, legs. He lingered over my groin, stroking my cock, cradling my balls as he had before- Then he shaved my head, my eyebrows, and removed my eyelashes.
Finally, after what must have been the work of many hours, I was completely hairless; every inch of flesh utterly denuded. Even the fine down in the cleft of my buttocks had been sought out, and eliminated. I watched myself in the mirror, more naked now than when I was born. Watched the needle go in again; and welcomed it.
When light returned, a sheet covered me from neck to feet. A11 curiosity gone, I relaxed easily into my ever-deepening passivity, and waited.
"First I strip you down..."
My lover whirled the sheet away with a conjurors flourish. Revealed, the shiny-smooth skin of my inner thighs arched towards my pelvis - and met, unencumbered by the graceless bags of flesh and gristle that had been my masculinity.
"...And now I build you up. Watch!'"
He moved towards a trolley of gleaming surgical instruments at the head of the table.
What follows next must have taken a long, long time. My lover slices, cuts, stitches and sews, removes and inserts, remoulding my form to his own unknowable plan. And always I watch, in the mirror. On one occasion, by careful manipulation of a second, hand-held glass, he shows me the two tiny surgical steel valves he has installed in the heels of my feet. One is to regulate the flow of nutrients into my body, the other governs the removal of waste from it. Two pencil-thin tubes run from the valves to a remarkably small flat box which controls the entire process. Impassively, I watch the progress of the pale translucent liquids through the tubes. I am grateful that my lover has done this. I don't want to die on the very cusp of this strange new life.
Another time, I awake to find the sheet in position again. My lover is humming. He sounds pleased. He pulls away the sheet.
The feminine form in the mirror looks back at me, serene, self- composed, self-sufficient. Its new perfectly-shaped full breasts tilt upwards challengingly. I feel a distant erotic pleasure. I am beautiful. Divining my thoughts, my lover laughs out loud.
"Now we can really get down to business..."
First, I am sprayed. My imperfect, pinkish-brown skin toned down to a slick, flawless all-over white; the thick, fast setting gel granting a new immobility laid upon my immobility. Now I am not only motionless, but rigid as well. When the compound dries completely, my lover removes the protective shields from my eyes and I see for the first time my new, porcelain-pure skin.
Sensation now takes on a new meaning. I find I can no longer differentiate between the limits of old and new skins. The marble-cool smoothness I feel when my lover touches that unblemished outer surface *is* my skin. He raps his knuckles against my shoulder. A sharp, clacking sound. I am a thing of mere flesh no more.
Make-up, or rather, painting next. Eyebrows redrawn, slightly quizzical, upward tilting. Delicately rouged cheeks. The subtlest of greys for the eyelids; luxuriant new eyelashes glued on; mascara and kohl effects complete the illusion. Blood red for the lips. Nails, long and shaped, painted to match. Contact lenses are fitted; appropriately blank for the outside, transparent from within. My vision is not at all impaired. I feel a faint sensation of relief. I do so want to watch. A big moment - the wig. My lover toys with various styles and shades, finally settling on a mid-length affair, soft black curls tumbling in profusion to my alabaster-white shoulders - a good choice. Even naked, I am haughty, austere, regal...beautiful.
At last - dressing up. My lover is clearly enjoying himself, and I share in his pleasure as he tilts me back to slip black silk panties up into my crutch. I feel their smoothness next to mine, hugging me there closer than anything I have ever worn in that other life, which already seems to me no more than a waking dream.
Suspender belt, the sheerest black stockings, and garter go on next. I am raised to standing position to facilitate this, the valves in my feet engaging with slots in my specially-designed stilettos. A moment's dizziness assails me, compounded as much by the fear that I will no longer be able to watch these final stages of my transformations as it is by the sudden rush of blood from my brain. If I were not so perfectly supported by my new skin, I would topple, and perhaps shatter on the tiled floor.
Ever-attentive, my lover senses this momentary distress, indicates with a smile and a wave of a hand the ring of mirrors ranged about us. Through a reflection of a reflection of a reflection, I can see better than ever before; myself, from every aspect. Perfect, and very nearly complete.
My lover next busies himself with the boned and wired basque, lacing and relacing, making the most of the narrow waist and broad hips he has sculpted from me. These intimate attentions have roused him, the curve of his prick tugging at his trousers as he works. He is disciplined, however, and contents himself merely with long, slow movement of his hand up one stiffened leg which ends in clench between the thighs which almost lifts me from the floor. All the while, his amused blue eyes bore into mine with a fixity only his drugs and artistry have allowed me to surpass.
Outer garments have already been selected, are quickly hung upon me, as I am zipped and buttoned tightly in - a taste of my fate to come. Smoothing down the ruching on the gorgeous beaded bodice of a black taffeta evening gown, adjusting it's bustle, arranging the voluminous skirt, and finally adjusting a pretty little jet choker about my throat, he speaks again.
"Oh, yes, you are beautiful, my mannequin, my dummy. Do you see yourself in the mirror, my model? What a exquisite thing you have become! By- reducing - you to this dumb immobile clotheshorse, this shop window statue, I have freed you from the burden of ordinary humanity. For you there is no need for a name, no burden of meaning, or doing."
"Look in the mirror, my dummy, and what do you see? Some - *thing* - which simply is. I envy you that repose, and thank you. Because I couldn't have made you over into this beautiful object without your help. you do know that, don't you? If your mind had not willingly embraced the same total acceptance I forced on your flesh, if you hadn't come to want this magical thing as much as I did, then you would never have survived the transformations. But you did want this, my beautiful dummy, I know. And for wanting this as much as me, for changing yourself so totally into this miraculous object, you shall have your reward..." He bent, and whispered in my sculpted ear.
He kept his word. I am now installed in a shop window, in an expensive and adventurous boutique. Quite how he managed this feat, I don't know. Of course, nor do I care. It is enough that I am here, perfect, inviolate. Once or twice a week, giggling shop girls who know nothing of my mystery change my clothes, dress me in shimmering fabrics, startling colours, the best the store has to offer. I am good for business. People gather to gawp at me through the window, not knowing why; come in to clutch at the cloth which I imbue with a little of my own uniqueness.
My lover visits often, to marvel with me at my latest incarnation, repeated to infinity in the store's many mirrors; and to check on his cunning mechanism, which runs out through the hollow heels of my shoes, into the pedestal to which I'm fixed.
And he has shared another secret with me: there is a polymer, a chemical, in the nutrient which flows into me from his clever little device, a chemical that reacts with the subcutaneous fat in my body, and with my hidden human skin. Stiffening it, changing it, cell by cell, inexorably, transforming it into a form of plastic that melds indivisibly with the gloss hardness of the second skin he has already granted me, until there will come a moment, soon, when there is no separation possible between one and the other.
I yearn for the moment. The final farewell to transient flesh. With every minute of every hour of every day I continue to change, becoming less and less human, more and more object. My thoughts move slowly now.
I feel myself becoming stiffer, more solid; more and more the beautiful thing he has made of me...And when, at last, the process is complete, my lover has promised he will take me home. Where his mannequin will pose, just for him.
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