I push aside the clutter on my desk—old comic books, crumpled homework, and a half-empty bag of chips—and that's when I spot it. Tucked under a pile of dusty shoeboxes in the corner of my room is this plain cardboard box, addressed to me in faded ink. 'To Alex,' it says, and the return address is some vague post office box from a city I've never been to. My biological parents? I've always known I was adopted, but they've never reached out. Heart pounding, I grab a pair of scissors and slice through the tape.
Inside, there's just a white plastic mask, smooth and featureless like something out of a cheap horror flick, and a folded note. My hands shake a little as I unfold it. The handwriting is neat, almost clinical:
'Alex, this is our gift to you. A tool for reinvention. Place it on someone you wish to become, and it will absorb their essence, creating a perfect replica. Wear the replica, and you are them—body, voice, memories, all. It works on the real and the imagined; summon a fictional soul, and the mask will forge their form. Use it wisely. We love you.'
What the hell? I stare at the mask, turning it over in my hands. It's lightweight, almost warm to the touch, like it's alive. Absorb someone? Become them? My mind races. School's been a drag—I'm just your average guy, 5'10, skinny build, awkward with girls, blending into the background. But this... this could change everything.
I flop onto my bed, mask in lap, and let my thoughts wander. Who first? That hot cheerleader from class, Mia? The one with the tight ponytail and legs that go on forever? Imagine slipping the mask on her during gym, watching it... absorb her. Then wearing her skin, feeling those curves, that sway in my—her—hips. I'd sneak into the girls' locker room, touch myself as her, explore every inch.
Or maybe something wilder. Fictional? Yeah, the note said that. Like, what if I pull out my old Spider-Man comics? Become him, web-slinging with superhuman stamina, pounding some villainess senseless on a rooftop. But screw heroes—let's go darker. That vampire chick from those late-night movies, pale skin, fangs, eternal hunger. I'd lure someone in, sink teeth into their neck while my hands roam their body, cold fingers teasing hot flesh until they beg for more.
My cock twitches at the ideas, hardening against my jeans. This mask isn't just power; it's pure fantasy fuel. I could be anyone, do anything. A busty elf from my RPG games, archery skills and all, seducing the party in a forest glade. Or that dominatrix from the porn I hide on my drive, leather-clad, cracking a whip before riding me—no, riding as her, making some dude submit.
I need to test it. But who? Real or fake? My pulse quickens. Maybe start small... or dive right in. What do you think—got any suggestions for my first transformation?
un: 
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