One cannot always pick one's traveling companions. This modern world of 1878 does afford one faster travel by rail, wherein I could change my company as easily as moving to another car. But I loath suffering the noise and smoke and cinders of the steam locomotive. Since I elected to travel by coach, I am burdened on this leg of my journey with two fellow passengers, a Mister Randall, and a Miss Limpet.
Miss Limpet, the source of my current discomfort, is a rather fresh and lovely young red-head, attired in what I can only assume is the latest fashion. Her dress, obviously new and expensive, properly hides her ankles, while managing to display an over-abundance of cleavage. Unfortunately, her comely appearance is more than offset by an apparent need to express her mind in a continuous and unending stream.
Mister Randall, a somewhat dark and smallish man, is dressed in neat but ill-fitting clothes. While blessedly quiet, he has two disturbing habits of his own: sweating profusely, and allowing his gaze to linger frequently on Miss Limpets more prominent attributes. She, however, is far too caught up in her own discourse to notice his glaring breech of manners.
As for myself, I am a man of medium height and rather slender build, clothed smartly in a custom-tailored suit. My journey takes me from my home in London to the Whitehill area, and the abode of my life-long friend, William. I have had no news from him in nearly eighteen months, until a letter arrived several days ago, inviting me to visit at his estate.
My grip contains a book, in case the scenery failed to hold my interest, but apparently I will not be permitted the peace and quiet required to enjoy it. I think longingly of the flask in my inside coat pocket, but hesitate to unearth it from it's hiding place. Courtesy would compel me to share, and Mister Randall looks none too healthy to my eye.
Some third of the way to our next stop, Miss Limpet finally ends her monologue on, among other things, the latest fashions from Paris, the most talked-about plays in London, and rumors of scandal amongst the Royals. Thinking she has at last run down, I dare close my eyes in anticipation of a short nap. Unfortunately, she is merely filling her sails for the next tack. By the time we reach Guildford, I think I have learned everything there is to know about her Parents, Brothers, Sisters, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and an astonishing number of childhood pets.
Leaving Guildford, I have the coach to myself all the way to Liphook, and manage to both nap and read a little. In one of those odd paradoxes Life sometimes throws at one, things seem almost too quiet in the absence of Miss Limpet.
Since it will put no one else out, and there is also the promise of a modest tip, the coachman takes me on from his regular stop the extra mile and a half to William's estate near Whitehill. Frelling is waiting at the gate to help carry my bags. Taciturn as ever, all I can elicit from him is, "Good afternoon, Sir.", and "This way, Sir."
William is waiting for me at the door. "Thomas! So good to see you again! Please, please, come in. Join me in the library for a brandy. You look like you could use one."
After a hearty handshake and embrace, I step back for a better look. I wish I could say he appears well, but I cannot. His eyes and cheeks look sunken, and his frame gaunt. He does not look so much sick to me as he does one who has spent too much time in the bottle.
He sees my look, and heads off any comment I'm about to make. "Come...let's talk inside."
In the library, a small fire takes the chill off the room. I decide to get right to the point. "William, is everything alright? To my eye, you look as though you are not eating or sleeping well."
He considers his reply. "I must admit to having a poor appetite, and some bad nights." He looks away from me. " I still miss her terribly, you know."
Silence seems recommended, so I just sip my drink. His lovely wife, Christine, was badly injured in a riding accident a year and a half ago, and died from the head wounds days later. William was so distraught that he severed all contact with the outside world. I wrote him regularly, but never received any reply until last week.
"I am afraid that in my grief, I have traveled down a very dark road." Before I can ask what that cryptic statement means, he apparently thinks better of it. "But enough of that for now. Please, let's talk of less gloomy things until Cookie has supper ready. After we've tucked into a hot meal there will be time enough for more weighty matters."
So I begin telling of my recent doings in London, and when I have caught him up, William fills me in on the latest events in the Whitehill area.
After dinner, we retire to the library. Frelling has rebuilt the fire, and it's dancing glow adds a welcome warmth. William pours us each a brandy and produces cigars and matches. I decline the cigar, but accept the drink readily.
After nerving myself with a hefty draught, I broach the subject that brings me here. "In your last letter, you wrote that you needed my help and advice on a highly sensitive matter, one that could only be discussed in person. Before dinner, you alluded to having started down a dark path." I sip at my brandy. "William, as your oldest and best friend, I am here to assist in any manner that I am able."
He stares into the fire for so long that I'm convinced he will not answer. Finally, without turning, he speaks, so low I can barely hear him. "You, more than anyone else, know how Christine's untimely death devastated me. For a time, I thought my only relief might be to join her. And for a time after that, I sought relief in drink." He shakes his head. "Then, in my despair, I conceived a terrible idea, one so audacious and profane, that you may well think me mad." He drains his glass. "I...I decided to construct a Christine simulacrum."
"You, you...what?!" I lean forward, certain my ears have deceived me.
He turns in my direction, but cannot meet my eyes. "Using my considerable knowledge of the modern sciences, I created a...a reasonably accurate and life-like model of...of Christine."
My first thought is that he is pulling a terrible jest at my expanse. But surely not! Christine was the Sun his life orbited. Her loss nearly killed him then, and obviously affects him still. I cannot believe he would joke in such a manner about his love. But the alternative is too incredible to contemplate! Has he accomplished what he claims? Or has his grief driven him insane?
"You say...you created this...um...model." I am forced to clear my throat in order to continue. "Are you...that is...is it complete?"
His eyes meet mine briefly. "It is. And now we come to the heart of the matter. The reason I asked you to come."
He rises and refills our glasses, a fortification I suspect we both desperately need. After draining half of his, he continues. "It seems I am unable to...well...to put it to the use I intended." He tosses off the other half. "And as it looks so very much like her, I cannot bring myself to destroy it."
At this point, I cannot be sure if he has actually constructed this monstrosity, or if he is suffering from a delusion. I recall reading that attacking someone's delusion directly can elicit a violent response, so I tread carefully. "This...ah, construct of yours...may I see it?"
"Eh? Why, yes. Of course!" He cocks his head and gives me a gentle smile. "Did you think I would drag you all the way out here, entertain you with a fantastic tale, and that would be the end of it?" He fills his glass and, just as quick, tosses it off. "Oh no, my friend! You will see it. You will touch it. You will learn from it's very creator the astounding techniques that were developed for it's construction!" He turns, and I can see the glint of madness in his eyes. "And you will experience both horror and awe as you recognize the terrible thing that I, in my brilliance and my despair, have wrought!"
William leads me to a bedroom just down the hall from mine. The brandy accompanies us, much to my dismay. Handing the decanter over to my care, he steadies himself against the door frame.
"This is her room." He pulls a key from a pocket and holds it up. "And this is the only key that unlocks the door. No one else is permitted entry." He musters a lopsided grin. "Except for my good friend Thomas."
After some fumbling and muttering, he manages to unlock and open the door. As we step inside, the lamp illuminates a room decidedly feminine in it's decoration. When I see what lies upon the bed, I gasp in shock, nearly dropping both the lamp and the brandy. It is Christine! Looking for all the world exactly as I remember. But she has been in the grave for eighteen months! How can this be possible?
William smiles at my confusion. "Step closer, Thomas, and tell me what you think of my handiwork."
I walk unsteadily to the edge of the bed. Even this close, I would swear it really is Christine lying there, the sheets pulled up to her neck. A horrible suspicion enters my mind. "William! Please tell me that you have not become a grave-robber!"
His smile disappears. "No. No, my beloved rests still in the cold ground." I hear a hint of pain in his voice. "Do you think so little of me? Do you really believe that I could violate her corpse?"
"Forgive me, William, but what am I to think? I only know what my eyes perceive. Perhaps...I have heard of life-like figures made from wax. Is that what I see here?"
He strides forward, grabs my hand, and places it upon her cheek. I jerk back in horror, but not before experiencing two very strange things. She reacts in no way to my touch. And her skin has the feel of warm, living flesh. When next I am aware, I find myself sitting in a chair. I point shakily at the bed. "What manner of abomination lies there? It looks like Christine, but is not. It feels alive, but is not. Tell me now, William, before I go mad."
He speaks to me gently, as though to a frightened child. "Calm yourself, Thomas. It is merely an exceedingly clever artifice, nothing more. If you will be patient, I will explain how it came to be."
In between swallows of brandy, he tells of how the idea was conceived. His quandary over whether to give over to temptation or continue wallowing in despair. The gradual turn from hopelessness to purpose. Long days and late nights, spent researching the most modern materials and mechanisms available. Drawing up and throwing away one set of plans after another. Until he determines the methods that will allow him to accomplish his infernal intent.
He sets this room up as his workshop, and makes clear to his staff they must never enter. To keep his secret project secure, the door is always locked, and he keeps the only key on his person.
For her skin, he enlists the services of a local furrier, providing him with many square yards of the finest, thinnest calf-skin, and several sealed pails of the raw sap of the rubber tree, stabilized by ammonia. William pays him handsomely to cure the calf-skin using a rather strange process, the final stages of which entail careful application of the raw rubber, in a most particular manner.
To give her mass, he hires local girls to construct many bladders of sewn leather, in a multitude of shapes and sizes. Each bladder is filled with a gelatinous substance, made from a recipe of marrow boiled from cows bones and the pectin cooked from the soft, pithy stems of a common marsh plant.
So she will have a comely shape, he fashions thin foils of a strong, light, metal alloy developed just for this project. These foils, positioned at key points under her skin, will mold the bladders beneath, when properly tensioned.
And lastly, he procures thin, lightweight clockwork mechanisms with very strong springs. These are the engines that will properly stress the flexible foils, by pulling on incredibly thin, narrow belts woven from drawn fibers of that same metal alloy.
He works slowly, carefully, not wishing to mar his creation with haste. After a year of effort, she is as complete as he can insure. Only then does he realize his dilemma. So he writes a letter to his oldest and dearest friend, asking for his help.
For several minutes I am silent. What am I to make of this fantastic tale? Has William really lost his mind? If this is a delusion, it is an incredibly detailed one. And somewhat substantial as well, if the evidence on the bed is any indication.
Perhaps it is time to examine that evidence closely. I stand and move to the side of the bed. Leaning close, I gingerly touch her cheek, then her neck.
"It feels like skin. And it's warm! How did you do this?"
"The calf-skin, properly cured and infused with a very small amount of the rubber compound, produces a most realistic facsimile of human skin. It is even slightly porous, so it can breathe. As for the warmth, before you arrived, I soaked the bladders in hot water before placing them inside h...ah, the construct. The effect is most life-like, is it not?"
I am surprised to experience a modicum of embarrassment. "Disturbingly life-like, I'm afraid." Another oddity comes to my attention. "Surely you had to piece the skin together. Yet I cannot see or feel any seams! How is this possible?"
He smirks over his brandy. "I was forced to become a more than adequate seamstress." Seeing my raised eyebrow, he continues. "Judicious application of my special rubber compound effectively hides the seams."
Leaning close, I sniff carefully. "The...um...artificial skin...it doesn't smell like leather. Or rubber, for that matter."
William sighs. "Do you have any idea how difficult it was to devise a curing process for both the calf-skin and the rubber that leaves no tell-tale smell? The answer to that problem eluded me for months."
I cannot imagine a suitable reply to that statement. The amount of time and energy he has devoted to bringing this simulacrum to fruition is astounding. Such obsession cannot be healthy, and my concern for William's state of mind grows.
Thinking it best to attack that problem in the light of day, I continue my investigation. Caressing her golden locks, I turn toward William. "The hair?"
"A wig attached to the scalp. The hair is real." Another cock-eyed grin. "You would be surprised what a woman of scant means will sell."
It's obvious he will soon be too intoxicated to stand. Perhaps it's time to put this story to the test. "William, is there any way for me to examine the inner workings of this...device?"
Without a word, he grabs the sheets and pulls, exposing a totally naked female form. My surprise is swiftly replaced by a sense of shock. She is perfect! Christine was a woman of about my height, with a curvaceous figure. The creature on the bed has her generous bosom, delightful waist, and well-rounded hips and derriá¨re.
Realizing what I'm staring at, I force myself to turn from that alluring sight, flushed with embarrassment. Behind me, I can hear William wrestling with the construct, followed by a SNICK sound.
William, damn him, finds my reaction funny. "You may turn around now, Thomas. Her innermost secrets are revealed."
The sight that greets my eyes is rather grisly. The figure lies face down on the bed, her back split wide open. I can see several bulbous shapes, obviously the gelatin-filled leather bladders, lying within. Bladders that must be pulled into shape by...
"William, how on Earth does one wind those clockworks you mentioned earlier?"
He turns with a curious smile on his face. "One must remove the bladders to warm them, emptying the torso. That exposes a socket inside, just behind the navel." He nods behind me. "The key is over there on the bureau."
"You seem to have thought of everything." Then I remember his dilemma, the problem that brought me here. "Well...almost everything..."
William stumbles, putting a hand to his head and moaning. I so want to examine his creation at close quarters, but feel compelled to assist him. As I help him to his bed, I console myself that there is plenty of time later to satisfy my curiosity.
Once William is asleep, I retire to my own room. With everything that has been revealed tonight, I find myself unable to rest. William has surely created a fantastic and terrible thing. Try as I might, I cannot find a reason this offspring of his depraved genius should not be destroyed. And 'twere best done quickly.
Retrieving a hat-pin from my grip, I carefully bend each end to form right angles. I walk quietly to that door, and used my improvised lock pick to gain access.
The infernal contraption lies as we left it, on the bed, face down, it's back split wide open. Oddly, I feel my resolve weaken. My desire to save my friend from his obsession is undermined by my insatiable curiosity. As I have all night, I decide to investigate his clever mechanism before destroying it.
Curious how the opening is made secure, I examine it closely. Tiny oval holes appear every inch or so along the edges, but I cannot make out any kind of latch. Without a stronger source of light I will have to postpone that part of the investigation for now.
Reaching inside, I carefully knead one of the internal bladders. It has a spongy texture that is disturbingly flesh-like. With some care, I remove it from the body. There are five similar bladders filling the torso, and I extract them all quickly. Each breast contains one bladder that appears to be fixed in place. Each buttock has a curved, lens-shaped bladder, also attached. Several smaller bladders fill the head, and hold the very realistic glass eyes in place. It takes me a minute or so to realize the long thin bladders filling the limbs have cords attached that allow one to pull them out. Dealing with the hands and feet is more difficult. It's while I'm reaching down into one of the devices hands that I realize how bizarre this must look. My one arm now appears smooth, hairless, and most feminine. To my consternation, I find myself more than a little aroused.
Now that the device is empty, I can see that it's inside surface is completely lined with a very soft, silk-like material. The mechanisms ensconced in this device are well hidden behind a layer of padding. It occurs to me that William probably installed such a soft lining to cushion the bladders against wear and puncture.
A little poking and prodding reveals a clever flap in the lining that allows access to the winding socket. Retrieving the rather ornate key from the bureau, I give it a try. It fits snugly. Curiosity drives me to start winding. I find the effort required to be considerable, but then I'm winding more than one spring. Thinking back over the night's conversation, I realize William never did reveal how many movements he installed in this creation of his.
Once the key will turn no more, I remove it. The construct appears unchanged. Still a life-sized, woman-shaped container for...
It is at this point that my intentions go even further astray. I must confess to having a peculiar fondness for being confined or wearing tight clothing. Under the right circumstances, I may even find it arousing, in a sexual manner. This abominable contraption that I was determined to destroy utterly, presents me with a most novel confinement opportunity. Here lies the empty likeness of a beautiful woman. One that is comfortably lined within, has a large opening, and can very possibly accommodate my meager frame.
Returning to my room, I quickly retrieve the tin of talc from my grip. Back in "her" room, it is only a matter of minutes for me to undress and powder my entire body. I kneel on the bed, straddling the opening. Slipping my feet down into its legs, I ease them as far as they will go before turning myself, and this bizarre device, over. While the calf-skin is flexible, the alloy shaping foils are less so, and I must expend considerable effort fitting and smoothing the devices feet and legs over my own. Finally, I am able to stand and work the calf-skin up over my hips and buttocks. The added weight and shape of the buttock bladders behind me is an unexpected encumbrance.
Before proceeding further, I consider what to do with my manhood. After some experimentation, I decide that placing it "up" will probably be more comfortable than tucking it "under".
It seems best to don the head before inserting my hands and arms. Bending forward, I carefully ease my own head through the opening. The fit is extremely tight, and even a bit painful, but I persevere. Aligning my eyes, ears, nose and mouth with the proper openings takes considerable patience. I am amazed to discover there are even paper-thin eyelids (with their own, long, blonde lashes!) that, once properly fitted, move effortlessly with my own. The long mass of blonde hair, falling to the small of my back, has a small but noticeable weight to it.
I wiggle my hands and arms into the device. Again, the extremely tight fit, coupled with the limited give of the calf-skin and the shaping foils, forces me to measure my progress in millimeters. Many exhausting minutes later, my hands and arms are fully ensconced within, and all wrinkles are smoothed away. The not inconsiderable size and mass of the chest bladders hanging off my torso will definitely take some getting used to.
At this point, the only part of my body still exposed is my spine. I walk to the full-length mirror to examine my perverse costume. Unsurprisingly, I appear as a rather thick-limbed, thick-bodied, square-jawed version of Christine. Or perhaps a slightly effeminate brother? I smooth the calf-skin around my waist with a rearward motion, in an attempt to both close the gap at my back and narrow the waist slightly. Looking over my shoulder and using the mirror, I painstakingly maneuver the two edges of the opening together.
In the quiet of the room, that little noise is almost like a gun-shot. As my grip on my waist relaxes, I'm startled to see the back does not fall open. Either it is caught on something, or I have accidentally discovered the hidden latching arrangement I was looking for earlier. Odder still, I can hear a quiet whirring sound, and feel gentle vibrations against my lower stomach. It sounds and feels as though there are two mainspring and escapement devices ticking away, one on either side of my abdomen. Apparently, I have inadvertently triggered the internal mechanisms that William had alluded to earlier. I find myself wishing we had not been interrupted, so I would have a better notion of what to expect. I understand they exist to tension the shaping foils, but just how powerful are they, and how much stress will they apply? Disturbingly, a side effect of such vibrations in that area is to tease my manhood into life.
I begin to feel a tightness over my entire torso, and deduce what must be happening. The gelatin-filled bladders alone will not give this device a perfect feminine shape. The mainsprings must be pulling on the metal-fiber straps, which in turn provide tension to the alloy shaping foils. This is Williams ingenious method for ensuring his contraption will achieve a proper feminine form. Since I seem to be neatly trapped for the moment, I fervently hope that the mainsprings are not powerful enough to do me any harm.
As the whirring continues, the device constricts at the waist in a manner that is almost painful. Breathing becomes more difficult, and for a moment I panic, clawing at my back in an attempt to pry open this devilish contraption. The mirror shows that the opening has sealed so perfectly that I can barely make out a seam. I pray that the mainsprings will wind down before my innards are crushed. As the torture progresses, my waist narrows further, even restricting my ability to bend my body. In addition, there is now a growing tightness in my upper torso. This has the effect of forcing the chest bladders into a more prominent and alluring profile. From shoulder to hip, my appearance is slowly approaching a more feminine ideal.
Louder whirring sounds are added to the first, and I now feel vibrations in both buttocks. Two more mainsprings? Whatever the Hell for? Damn William and his infernal cleverness! Apparently, once the mechanism has progressed to a certain point, a second stage of activity is triggered. I quickly learn what that might be. The vise around my waist grows stronger, while I feel an ever-increasing tightness in my legs and abdomen. Two small points of intense pain flare between my legs, forcing me to expel what little breath I have in a sharp gasp. I spread my legs in an attempt for relief, and am surprised when I feel two popping sensations, followed by a welcome easing of the pain. It seems my testicles have been pressured into ascending into my abdomen. I just pray there is no permanent damage. To my growing embarrassment, the strong, regular movements of these nether mainsprings massage my buttocks, further heightening my arousal.
Looking down, I am shocked to see how the contours of my legs have been altered in so short a time. They are becoming most shapely, although at the cost of unremitting pressure. The artificial female genitalia between my legs appears astonishingly authentic. Having already strayed far past the normal boundaries of civilized behavior, I see no reason to stop now. Just how far has William gone with this desperate obsession of his? I gingerly spread the folds and press my middle finger between them. It sinks slowly, until the entire length disappears into some cleverly designed pocket, intended, no doubt, to accommodate a mans sexual organ. There is no longer any doubt as to the purpose for which William created this infernal contraption.
Another side effect of the intense pressure is to restrict the bending of my knees or ankles, enforcing an odd grace to such movements. A growing ache in my arches forces me to raise my heels slightly. I feel welcome relief even though it means I'm now forced to stand on my toes.
The ghastly whirring continues. A glance in the mirror reveals why. The buttock bladders, previously sagging, are slowly being pulled into a more pleasing teardrop shape. Despite all the pain this abomination is inflicting upon my person, I find myself fascinated by my gradual transformation.
Mother of God! What now? Two more mainsprings, located behind the chest bladders, whir into action. From the sound and the feel of things, these are the most powerful yet. Perversely, their unwinding stimulates my nipples through the soft lining. My little soldier, trapped under this constricting contraption, is so stiff I fear it may explode. William! What have you wrought? What could possibly remain to be done?
The answer is not long in coming. My arms, hands, and even fingers, are all being compressed without mercy. Their lines become smooth before my very eyes. As with my legs, attempts to flex my joints increases the pressure, slowing my actions.
My throat is gripped in a choke-hold, and I gasp for breath, afraid I will be asphyxiated. For the first time, I am starting to wonder if I will survive this torture device. As if all this were not sufficient, a pulling sensation works upward and across my face, exerting incredible pressure on my jaw and cheeks. I wish desperately that I had paid close attention when William opened this hellish contraption earlier.
Despite the fearsome pain, I am captivated by what I see in the mirror. My Adams Apple has disappeared. My neck somehow seems slimmer and longer. I know that must be an illusion created by the various shaping foils, but it is a most convincing one. And my face! Oh, my God! What's left of my original facial contours is disappearing! Before my eyes, Christine's face slowly fades into view.
Gradually, the whirring noises subside. I realize that this incredible device has achieved a state of equilibrium, the strong springs of the clockwork engines having cinched each artificial tendon to it's limit. I am no longer merely a man trapped in this clever contraption. I have become a creature formed of myriad tensions, bound into this beautiful, female form. My transformation is complete. My friend Williams dead wife, in all her naked glory, stands revealed.
Stepping close to the mirror, I both see and feel an oddness that is not immediately obvious. I step back, watching myself closely. Shrugging, I walk across the room and back, picking up various items and putting them down again, sometimes bending to do so. I repeat this several times before I can finally be certain of what I'm seeing. All my movements are slow, minimal, graceful, feminine ones. My hips and legs move differently. I hold my hands and arms in an unaccustomed manner. Even the tilt of my head and the posture of my shoulders and spine has changed. The tireless pressings and pullings and squeezings of this infernal contraption have molded not only my appearance, but my physical mannerisms as well!
"William, what have you..." I stop, confused. My hand flies to my mouth. Or would have if it could. Actually, my hand covered my mouth, in a motion more graceful than I would have thought myself capable. Those words sounded wrong. I try again.
"William, what have you done?" In the mirror, Christine's ice blue eyes, so much like my own, are clearly surprised, and a little frightened. Apparently the severe constriction of my waist, coupled with the terrible compression of my neck, have combined to give me a higher, somewhat breathless voice. While perhaps not Christine's voice exactly, hearing such a girlish sound emanate from this female vision has shaken me to the core.
I look like a woman. I walk and move and gesture like a woman. I even sound like a woman. William, in his grief and cleverness, has created an impossible thing. And I, in pursuit of my lustful perversion, have animated it. To all outward appearances, I am Christine resurrected.
This realization has a peculiar affect on me. Staring into the mirror, it's quite easy to believe that I am Christine, and not just a strange man, trapped inside a fiendishly clever female simulacrum.
The mechanical stimulations of my abdomen, buttocks, and nipples, coupled with the forbidden thrill of being so thoroughly encased, and completely transformed into the image of Christine, has aroused me beyond all reason. I back up until I can sit on the bed, my eyes never leaving the mirror. Licking two fingers, I spread the folds between my legs, rubbing the thin material that covers the base of my manhood. My other hand kneads a breast, causing the clockwork mechanism deep inside to tease the nipple below. I flex my waist, causing the silky inner lining to caress the head of my tightly trapped member, while the escapements in my posterior jiggle against my buttocks. My excited cries, so female, so feral, only heap fuel upon the flame of my desire. I watch Christine in the mirror, as reason fades from her beautiful eyes, as her lovely mouth purses in gasps and moans and coos, as her ministrations become more and more frenzied, until she comes with amazing ferocity. I fall back on the bed, exhausted and gasping for breath.
I awake a short time later. The lamp is low, but I can still make out the clock. It is not yet one in the morning. And I am still bound in the form and image of Christine. A hand sneaks between my legs and rubs slowly. I am not satiated. If anything, my lust has grown to a frightful magnitude, brushing all other considerations aside. An audacious idea creeps into my head. Some little voice whispers that I am mad, and will probably be damned for what I'm thinking, but the idea doesn't go away. I twist my body and rub harder, a whimper escaping my lips. The little voice fades.
Throwing back the covers, I turn and put my feet on the floor, barely noticing the forces still binding me into this beautiful shape. In the closet I find a robe and throw it on. A quick search reveals Christine's jewelry box. I decide on a sapphire pendant necklace with matching earrings. A few small spritzes of her favorite perfume, a few minutes brushing my long, lovely hair, and I am ready.
Tip-toeing down the hallway, I pause at Williams door. Part of me is shocked at the boundaries I've crossed tonight, and the even greater boundaries I am about to violate. At the same time, I am Christine, and I will not be denied.
Quietly turning the knob, I slip inside and cross to the bed. William is sound asleep. The decanter sits empty on his nightstand. Slowly I pull back the covers and ease my weight onto the bed. I am so scared right now that I almost turn and leave, but he does not wake. Slowly...so slowly, I straddle his sleeping body and slide his nightshirt up. This close, I can both smell the brandy on his breath, and see that he is better endowed than I ever suspected. Still, he does not wake.
Using my fingers, I transfer as much saliva as I can to the folds between my legs. I lower my hips until his manhood is trapped between us. Bending my arms, I allow my nipples to brush his chest. Very slowly, I begin to rock back and forth.
Almost immediately, I can feel his manhood stiffen. I move a bit faster. He grows thicker, longer, gradually achieving what feels to me like heroic proportions. At this point, I can't help myself. I let out a small moan. His eyes blink open, and I feel his body go rigid with fear.
I whisper softly, trying to calm him. "William, it's me. Christine. I'm here. It's all right, Will, I'm here."
His body slowly relaxes. Then I feel his hands on my hips. He takes command, with an urgency that is both frightful and thrilling at once. Pulling me forward, he tilts his hips, and shoves me back against that large, rigid shaft. I gasp as it squeezes into that specially designed cavity, rubbing warm against my own smaller organ as it plunges to it's full depth. A gasp that soon becomes a series of rhythmic moans, as he fills me over and over again.
His hands kneading my posterior cause the enclosed clockworks to titillate my buttocks. My breasts being rubbed and squashed against his chest agitate those mechanisms against my nipples deep inside. His organ, plunging in and out beside mine, strokes it to a painful stiffness. But for me, all that pales beside the feeling of being so tightly trapped inside the body of Christine. It is the confinement experience to end all others, exciting me to heights I never dreamed possible. While we are moving together, his possession of me is total. I am his Christine.
William is a man driven by his pent-up passion for his lost love. As for myself, I am insatiable. I have not just become the image of Christine. For a time, I am the mind, the heart, and the soul of Christine. I am the woman, returned for a short while, to comfort her man.
We enjoy each others bodies, several times, and in different positions. Finally, he sleeps. I wait, just to be sure, then slip out and back to her room.
Now what? It suddenly occurs to me, that on top of all the many transgressions I committed this night, I still have no idea how to escape this contraption. A part of me does not want to. I love being Christine, despite the pain of the original transformation. Now, I no longer notice the various constrictions that bind me in this form. Everything I'm feeling is all part of being Christine.
On the other hand, I cannot remain in this body. William seeing Christine while his mind is fogged by strong drink and sleep is one thing. Seeing her in the light of day will surely cause the kind of trouble I want no part of.
So I need to escape Williams clever device, at least for now. But how? A sharp knife will surely do the trick, but I may well end up nicked or worse, tight as this contrivance hugs me. And I find I no longer have the desire to destroy it. As long as it exists, there is the chance that I can once again become Christine.
Think, Thomas! Think! Turning, I examine the room. It is quite possible that William kept notes on his bizarre experiment. If so, they would be hidden here, safe in the room he keeps everyone else locked out of.
It takes me nearly half an hour, but find them I do. As much as I want to study them in detail, I dare not take the time right now. Even skimming as quickly as I can, another half hour passes before the answer is mine.
After one last, long look in the mirror I place a finger from each hand in my navel, press in firmly and pull to the sides. There is a quiet SNICK, and an odd slithering sound as all the metal-fiber straps are loosed, gradually relieving every constriction over my entire body. Another SNICK and I feel a bit of cool air along my spine. I quickly peel myself out of the contraption. It will be dawn soon, and I have much to do.
I clean the device as best I can, place it back on the bed in it's original position. Then each bladder is carefully replaced. Williams notes are tucked back into their hiding place. I leave the room locked, as I found it. Returning to my own room, I take a quick basin bath and retire. If I'm fortunate, I may get two hours sleep before I must be up for breakfast.
Frelling serves us a light breakfast of eggs, fruit and cheese, on the patio. It's a beautifully sunny morning, with a slight chill in the air.
William sips at his tea. "How did you sleep, Thomas? You look a bit tired this morning."
With some effort I manage to maintain my composure. "Ah, you know how it is. First night in a strange room...it just takes some getting used to."
"Well, if there's anything you need to be more comfortable, just say the word. I want you to feel at home here."
I take a sip of my own tea. "You are a most generous host, William. And the room is fit for a king. I'm certain I'll settle in quite nicely."
"I slept rather well myself last night." He pauses and gives me a quick glance. "Except for an odd dream."
I reach for another strawberry. "Oh? Was it a bad one?"
"No...that's the strange part. It was quite a nice dream, actually." He gives me another glance, seeming a bit nervous. "You'll no doubt think I'm still obsessing about Christine, but I dreamed she came to me last night." He pauses, as though considering his next words carefully. "I dreamed we made love half the night. And then I slept sounder than I have since she's been gone."
"I must say...that sounds like a very good dream indeed. Why did you think it odd?"
"Well..." He seems distracted. "...it was so real, so intense." He looks directly at me. "I've never in my life had a dream as vivid and realistic as that." His face reddens slightly. "In fact, I made quite a mess of the sheets, it seems." He coughs nervously and pushes his tea away. "I'm sorry...here I am going on about Christine again. Let's talk about something lighter, Okay?" He continues without waiting for an answer. "Have you given any thought to how long you will be staying?"
"Well...I told my associates I would be gone at least a week." I give him a smile. "Perhaps less if my host should weary of me."
"Nonsense, my friend! I have shut myself up out here for too long. And I feel some company will do me good. Stay a month! Stay longer if you wish."
"You tempt me, William. You surely tempt me." And what a temptation! I pretend to study my strawberry whilst considering the possibilities. A month of opportunities to indulge my passions. Night after night, squeezing myself back into that indecent contraption, and triggering it's miraculous mechanics. Watching in the mirror as it clicks and whirs and slowly, painfully, deliciously, shapes me into the lovely Christine again. Binding me oh so tight inside that voluptuous body. And then there's the matter of her closet, filled with dozens of dresses and gowns designed to mold to her figure. Beautiful confinement on top of beautiful confinement. A shiver of excitement runs up my spine. Yes...a simple word like temptation hardly does an offer like this justice. "You know...an extended vacation could be quite pleasant. I think I'll take you up on your splendid offer."
"Excellent! I'll inform the staff immediately! I feel quite certain we will both benefit handsomely from your stay here."
We finish our tea in silence. I cannot vouch for his thoughts, but I know that mine are running rampant. It occurs to me that a month should give me plenty of time to copy his notes. Of course, that means I'll have to ration my time as Christine. A terrible choice, but with those notes in hand...the possibilities are endless. Once back in London, I can build my own device, in whatever guise I prefer. A talkative red-haired beauty comes to mind. I am not without connections, and can surely procure enough information to allow me to "bump into" the loquacious Miss Limpet, while wearing a form very nearly her twin. Oh, yes...the possibilities...
Before leaving the table, William leans toward me, an odd look on his face. "Funny thing...I never noticed before...you have Christine's eyes..."
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