Wearing Jennifer's Face
By Vicki Mock
The mirror shows a fashion throwback to the 60's, something like a whorish Emma Peel, but a woman, a convincingly real woman. The mask is mobile, thin enough in places to allow facial expression: smiles, grimaces, kisses, and the languid, half lidded, false eye lashed, pouting look of lust.
I am ready to explode, but I am contained because I cannot manually stimulate myself further. I am in a holding pattern of pleasure: the swishing movement of the long hair, the sound of the nyloned legs brushing as I walk, the clip clop of the little boots on the hardwood floor, the feel of my large, firm ass under the short vinyl skirt, the feel of my gloved hands as they touch the rubber illusion that so artfully hides my own face. My passion burns as brightly as a torch in the night.
As we prepare to leave the room, Jennifer slyly smiles and tells me she knows my secrets. She makes it clear that I owe her and she will collect very soon. Say yes, she demands, say it like a woman would. Yes, I say, in as close an approximation of her breathy female voice as I can, yes.
Everyone is knocked out by my appearance as Jennifer walks me by hand through the party, introducing me with a big grin as her big sister; I really do look like her sister. My girlfriend is impressed and playful, watching with amazement and something else I can't read. In front of the group she acts like she wants me to get out of this Jennifer disguise and be her boyfriend again, but I see she is enjoying it. I get catcalls from the guys and they grab my boobs and ass like drunken construction workers.
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