Transformation Vignettes

by Mark Gooley

Roger snickered as he finished reading the message: another infatuated geek tricked by his fake user name. He thought for a moment and began to type his reply. "Jim," it began, "I'm nineteen, blonde, great body (I model bikinis in the summer), big green eyes. I'm proud of my tan..." Roger was so intent on his writing that he saw nothing of the change: how his fingers became long and delicate, how his face became beautiful, how his body shrank and gained new curves. Only when the woman he had become heard her own laughter did she notice anything amiss.

She brought the casserole to the table and he sniffed at it greedily. "Smells delicious," he said. "Now where's Timmy?"
"He's in there," she said, gesturing towards the casserole.
He laughed nervously. "Very funny. Seriously, now."
"I'm serious," she said. "Not all of him, just the meat and some internal organs. But don't worry, he's really just my cat."
"And I suppose I'm not really your husband, either?" he asked.
"You're just my dog," she said, and he changed into a bull terrier. She shooed him off of the chair and put a helping of casserole into his food dish.

"Please," chittered the lobster. "If I'm lying, cook me."
"All right," he said. He took it in both hands and kissed its head. Its exoskeleton softened; it grew and altered.
"Again!" it said, in a woman's voice; he held it close, kissed its human mouth. Claws became arms, tail buttocks, two legs human legs.
Soon a young redhead, naked and lovely, sat on the table. She crushed her mouth against his. Before he could resist, he was small, weak, too clumsy even to nip with his claws. When the change was complete, she laughed and pitched him into the pot.

"No prom for you, young lady, and that's final," he said. "Roger's going as you."
Jennifer burst into tears. "I never get to live the fun parts of my life," she sobbed.
"Awww, Mom," whined Roger, "I don't wanna be her again!"
"You'll be a good boy and become your sister," he said, "and don't call me Mom when I'm being your Dad."
They stripped Jennifer of her face, larynx, hair, genitals, and breasts. With those parts, Roger made a convincing Jennifer who fitted perfectly into Jennifer's prom clothes. Jennifer's date arrived, and Roger minced out to the waiting limousine.

"Hold still," he said, and she held Miss February's pose as the apparatus sculpted her flesh. Presently she was the woman in the photograph, only better: such skin, such a face, come only from airbrushing. She rose and admired herself in the mirror; he could barely contain his lust.
"I feel strange," she said in her sexy new contralto, once they had made love.
"It's the metamorphosis," he said, and left the bed to use the bathroom. "Lie back. Relax."
He returned to find the bed apparently empty. Then he saw the cutout, large as life, of Miss February screaming.

"It's wonderful, waking up with you in my bed," he said.
"I love men who work with money," she said, and covered his mouth with hers. At their climax she liquefied and flowed into his nostrils and mouth; he choked and sputtered and tried to fight back, but in minutes her entire substance was inside him.
He laughed her laugh, got up and shaved what he now considered his stupid face, showered his weedy body, and dressed. He needed no breakfast. As he sat on the toilet and excreted his excess mass, he worked out the details of the embezzlement.

"Look at me!" she cried. "How could you be so cruel?" Her hair was straw blond and impossibly coarse. Deep circular scars made a pattern on her scalp. Her face looked caved in; she had enormous blue eyes, bushy black lashes, a nose impossibly retrousse', a rosebud mouth, a pointy chin. Her breasts were huge, her waist tiny, her hips and legs somehow unnatural. Her rough dress fitted badly.
"I'm sorry, Barbie," he said.
"Make me a doll again," she pleaded. "I have to pee, and there's no hole!"
"I can't!" he said.
She struck him, then collasped in agony.

She took the envelope from her coat. Thirty dollars. For that I'll play anyone's girlfriend, she thought, though really he's kind of sweet.
In the bedroom she pulled at her long black wig. It seemed rooted to her scalp: tugging proved futile. She whipped off her sham glasses: the world was a blur. In the bathroom she scoured off her pale makeup: underneath, her skin was the same color. Of course the bra and panty pads had become part of her.
A few minutes later, she was reading with enthusiasm the poetry laboriously studied for her role as his girlfriend.

"The mask!" she cried. "It's stuck!" Her eyes, now blue, filled with tears.
"Pretend you love me," he said, "just for this evening, and I'll take it off."
"After you've done this to me?" she asked.
"If the mask stays on for another six hours," he said, "the changes will become permanent. You'll have become a gorgeous young blonde, and nobody will believe you're really Velma."
She wiped her tears. "Velma? Who's Velma?" she said.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "The mask doesn't affect memory."
"Who said that it does?" she said, and was gone before he could stop her.

The skin of a young woman, slit from forehead to crotch and down its limbs, floated in the tank. It slurped towards Sandra and aimed its eye holes at her. "It desires your flesh," the Professor told her.
"No! Not mine!" she cried.
"The symbiosis is pleasant," he said. "Beauty, intelligence, personality, adoration from every man -- all yours!"
Sandra crumpled as if fainting, but rammed her head into the Professor's groin. He staggered back and fell, striking his head against the tank.
The Professor's daughter, home after years abroad, was considered the most beautiful, charming debutante of the season.

She was pink: strawberry blonde hair with matching brows and eyelashes, skin the even pink of the painted wall of a little girl's room, darker nails and lipstick, frilly pink dress. Her long, slender fingers worked the keyboard at incredible speed. "Where's Sandra?" he asked her.
She stopped typing. "Sandra?" she asked, voice affectedly cute.
"My secretary," he said.
"Oh, they've all been recycled," she said. "They pulped them together and molded them into us."
"That's monstrous!" he said. "Inhuman!"
"Managers get recycled today," she said, and before he could say anything she fired the tranquilizer dart into his neck.

The Mickey and the Minnie recognized each other by the tiny, unauthorized variations in their clothing, embraced as best they could, and rode the same elevator down to the Service Center. At Food and Waste they joined dozens of others, peeled back patches of neck skin and connected the food tubes; they plugged their tails into the waste sockets in the floor. Their tubes and tails bulged slightly as food flowed in and waste out.
"I hope they're taking good care of our real bodies," signed the Mickey.
The Minnie hung her head. "They'll never let us be people again."

"Glad I talked you into having breakfast?" she asked.
"Cheryl," he said, "I'll probably just get indigestion. But yeah, you're right."
"Another disappearance?" she asked.
"Looks like it," he said, finishing his coffee. "Another old maid vanished without a trace, one Elvira Simpkins." She flinched.
"What's wrong?"
"The name's familiar, somehow," she said.
He shrugged. "I'd better get going." He got up, and they kissed on the lips for a full half-minute before he left.
Elvira, lips still moist from the kiss, walked to the bedroom mirror and admired her fine young body. Until last week it had been Cheryl's.

The doctor looked up from his breakfast bowl of crushed brick and sorghum syrup. "Aphasia, my dear," he said to his wife, "why are you becoming a wombat?" For indeed the metamorphosis was well under way.
"The pet shops are offering an excellent price for them, " she said, scratching the new fur on her shrinking body with a paw.
"You might have given me some warning," he said, and dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter before stalking off to the basement to get another wife from cold storage.
"Sorry about that, Desmid," were her last words.

Transformation Vignettes copyright 1996 by Mark Gooley.