There were always a few moments between inhabiting his male body and taking over a female one where Pete was in limbo. They were light moments, pure ones. Ones that made him recognise how heavily a person's body cells hung off them. For this reason he suspected he knew how Medieval knights must have felt in their weighty gunshot chainmail.
But always - always - he welcomed the sensation of merging with a female body. It felt like slipping on a satin chemise, shrugging into a dark silk kimono, wrapping one's freshly-bathed self in the purest and richest of embroidered Egyptian cotton.
His virtual feet fit into hers like Cinderella's slippers, or perhaps the action made him feel more like one of Quentin Tarantino's actresses. Ah, yes: the light but rampant sexuality of the female. Like a stinging whip compared to the man's crushing cudgel. So different but still lethal enough to tear families apart and change the course of history. He flexed his fingers which once again felt daintier than his real, masculine ones.
He felt the mild pulling-back of his head by a weighty mane of new hair. And the contrast of that pulling with a contrasting impulse to lean forward over the weight of breasts. Big ones, if he read the situation accurately.
And he felt the reassuring cling of women's clothing. A dress. He closed his eyes as the immersion completed, the better to play a little guessing game.
What am I wearing? I bet it's black and white. A shift dress, I think. Made of...
Wool. It feels like good-quality wool.
He opened his eyes and found himself, quite fortunately, looking in a mirror. His - her - look of open surprise twisted into an artfully sly smile. I was right about the shift dress, he thought, turning his new body to the side to check out her profile. He wobbled slightly on a pair of heels as he did, but quickly recovered. And can I get away with saying a grey dress is black and white? I suppose so.
He would check the material later. Maybe, if he didn't find more exciting things to do. With boobs like these he'd be surprised if he didn't.
But for now? He had the body of a cougar, a MILF, a yummy-mummy. That meant he had a whole list of things he wanted to try.
"Come on then, sugar!" he told his reflection and smiled at her rich, almost sing-songy voice. "We've gotta get you out on the town."
xXx
But first came the small matter of finding out who he was. Or more accurately, who she was.
He looked around the flat and sure enough, soon found what he knew had to be there somewhere. Her handbag, slumped in the bottom of an open wardrobe among several pairs of shoes. He picked it up by its straps with careless satisfaction, as if he was holding the severed head of a rival by its inferior hair. He took his goodie-filled victim to the settee for inspection.
"Okay," he said quietly, seating himself down and placing the handbag on his lap. He opened the clasp and delved inside. He found her wallet, a small classic leather thing, and opened it. A generous sheaf of cash. "Looks like you've got money, missy."
But then, a full wallet didn't always mean much. And then again, sometimes it spoke volumes.
He picked out a driving licence, which showed a mugshot of his new face gazing back at him with clear eyes, and looked at the bottom. Her name was 'Macy Lucia Rossen.'
He put the wallet to one side and dug further inside the bag. The next thing he found was a little book by an author who went simply by the name Rumi. He opened it. Rumi, it turned out, was a poet. Curious about the kind of poetry his MILF host might like, he read a little.
When the ocean comes to you as a lover,
marry at once, quickly,
for God's sake!
Don't postpone it!
Existence has no better gift.
No amount of searching
will find this.
A perfect falcon, for no
reason
has landed on your shoulder,
and become yours.
He closed the book and put it with care beside the wallet. Then he delved back into the soft jaws of the handbag. "Now, what else is in here?" A pen, a few pieces of crumpled paper, two or three receipts, a stick of lipstick and a powder compact, a box of tampons, a ring of keys, a cell phone and a vibrating bullet.
He picked the bullet up and examined it, switching it on and putting it to the tip of his nose to feel the strength of the buzz. Fine and gentle, and almost silent. He switched it off and looked thoughtfully at it. Use it now or leave it for later?
A woman's life was a rich tapestry of culture and trinkets, ornamentation and emotion. The sex was titillatingly different - in fact, one of Pete's favourite parts of these journeys were the loss of his dick, the close-up-and-tight feeling of a clitoris rather than the heavy swing of a penis - but he always found there was so much to experience over and above the road-testing of his rented genitals.
Macy's attitude to her bullet filtered through: a kind of lofty contempt. It had its use and Pete realised then: it was very useful to her. But afterwards she would rinse it off, throw it back into her bag and forgot about it. It was quiet, convenient and unobtrusive.
Just like my ideal kind of man, said one of Macy's own thoughts.
Pete's consciousness turned towards Macy's thought and embraced it, although she'd have no idea he was in here. That was the magic of these visits: he was truly a ghost.
So. What am I going to do next? he asked, knowing that her deeper consciousness would hear the question and respond to it.
Fri Mar 02 18:51:54 2012