Skin

[Published in Raw Nerve]

I couldn't decide which one to slip into -- my mind was in such turmoil that I found it difficult to concentrate on my driving. I mentally pictured each option, and after some thought narrowed it down to two -- my own personal favourite, and the latest addition to my collection. My final decision was not really important though, because I knew that the pleasure would be intense whichever one I selected.
Upon reaching home I had chosen -- it was to be the more recent acquisition. My favourite would keep for another occasion. All day I had anticipated this moment, blindly rushing through the rigours of work, my sole desire being to indulge in my pleasures. Immediately upon entering the house I dashed upstairs and into my bedroom -- into my lair.
I was almost trembling as I opened the wardrobe doors. I was akin to a bitch on heat, a junkie facing a fix, an alcoholic breaking into an off licence. My breathing was slow and heavy, as though I were inhaling gas, and my heart was beating quickly. I wondered whether my unholy desires would ever cease. However, for
the time being...
Four skins hung before me on hangers, in between shirts and trousers and jackets and suits, unnaturally evident in the darkened confines of my wardrobe. I knew them well. I knew them by name, by nature, by sight, by touch. Intimately, I knew them. The objects of my delight.
"Lydia," I gasped in a whisper, and reached out to lift one of the hangers from the rail. I tenderly laid it on to the bed before closing the curtains. Peeping toms would have heart attacks if they witnessed what was about to occur. I stripped off completely, catching my image in the full length wardrobe mirror. I didn't really like what I saw, and wanted the reflective glass to shatter so that I wouldn't have to endure such a sight -- but then I wouldn't be able to admire the splendour of the skins.
I carefully removed the hanger. Her real name wasn't Lydia, that was my own moniker, which I had given her after acquiring the skin. Formerly she was Susan Kershaw, a fact I only discovered after reading the reports of her apparent disappearance. I found it impossible to get excited by a Susan, so that name had to go. Lydia sounded so much more exotic and alluring.
"Fancy going out tonight, Lydia? Come on, I'll take you out."
I sat on the bed and began to slip into the skin, relishing the smooth texture as I did so. Legs first, stretching my toes to fit tightly, not wanting any wrinkles to show. I arose, and wrapped the skin taut against me, right up to the neck, to my Adam's apple almost, the arms already enclosed. This was the tricky part, but after all the practice I had had I was most competent. Each time I had stolen I had sliced from the nape of the neck down to the cleavage at the small of the back. I found this sufficient, as it provided the tightest of fittings. My intention was to appear as authentic as possible, after all.
I reached behind me and closed the zipper. This I had added afterwards, of course. The only non-human element involved in the process. The face and hair hung loosely before me, and I spread my silky hands over the ample breasts, firm and supple, and exciting -- God, how exciting! I inhaled as I contemplated the
final stage, the coup de grace of the operation, the most difficult aspect of the task.
I had to get it exactly right.
It was similar to donning a Halloween mask, or any type of mask for that matter, but much more exhilarating. The hair was long and dark and wavy, which pleased me, as it hid the zipper end at the back of the neck. I stretched and pulled until I was completely satisfied, content that I could get away with the masquerade. With gratification I observed myself in the mirror.
"Lydia."
I opted for a comparatively plain outfit as opposed to something extravagant, as I didn't wish to attract any undue attention upon myself. Black pencil skirt, matching jacket, cream blouse. I then fastened the chunky pearl necklace around the back of my neck, a necessity to conceal the giveaway Adam's apple. I was used to the underwear -- that was part of the thrill after all, a pastime I had acquired many, many years before I began my career as a skin collector.
I took time to compose myself before my courage arrived -- before I allowed Lydia to venture out into the night.
"My name is Lydia," I said.
The man was so close I could smell his aftershave, I could see the bristles upon his five o'clock shadow, I could detect the devilish intention in his eyes.
"I'm Brian," he said.
I sipped some expresso, noticing my shaking hands, and the dark red painted fingernails. The coffee bar was almost empty, and as quiet as a church, the darkness of the night evident through the large windows.
"So what do you do, Lydia?"
I knew the answer at once, without even thinking. All sorts of things, but not with you.
"I work in the Abbey National building," I replied, a ruse I always went for, "I've been doing a bit of overtime."
"I bet you have."
His words were ambiguous and lascivious. I was appalled at his closeness, the ghastly fellow was encroaching more and more, his leg nearly touching mine. My skirt wasn't short, it was just above the knee, but sufficient to attract a certain degree of male attention.
"You smell nice," he said.
How pathetic, I thought, pathetic and unoriginal. No woman would ever entertain such a hopeless chat-up technique, no real woman, and definitely not Lydia.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't mention it. Listen -- I don't live far from here. Fancy a coffee at my place?"
I wondered how long it would take for the wretched fellow to lower the boom. I hadn't been in the place long before he approached me, leering at my body, my legs, the lot. I was beginning to feel quite warm beneath the skin, and had to get away quickly. I didn't hate to disappoint Brian.
Leaning across to him, I whispered in his ear. "It's my time of the month." The prick teaser's delight.
He backed off in disgust. "Is that right?" His words bore a certain nervousness, and he shrank away, seemingly devoid of all bravado.
I almost laughed.
"I must go," I said, and without a goodbye arose from the chair before trotting across the tiled floor and out into the night. I was relieved as the coldness hit my face. The lipstick was cloying my mouth, I had put on far too much as always.
The skin was tight upon me as I walked along the street, and I experienced an inner glow, a feeling of intensity, of immense pleasure. Males glanced my way appreciatively, admiring me, or to be more exact, admiring Lydia. After much practice I had become accustomed to the female method of walking, the wiggle of the hips, the light steps as opposed to the cumbersome male strides, the eyes staring directly ahead. I smiled to myself -- it was more exciting than I had ever imagined.
Suddenly I noticed a young man glaring at me from under the light of a street lamp. He seemed peculiar, not like the others. The most striking thing about him was his blonde hair, and his expression was of confusion and bewilderment. As I approached he appeared to become more alarmed, until I was mere feet away.
"Susan?" the young man enquired.
I looked his way, but only for a second, my stomach tightening and my heart thumping. It was the dilemma I had dreaded -- recognition.
I picked up speed, passing the perplexed man, my high heels tapping on the pavement as I attempted to avoid the stranger. I was able to hear footsteps from behind, swift paces heading my way. I dared not glance over my shoulder, I just had to escape. With great relief I reached the taxi rank and selected one, tugging open the door and practically hurling myself clumsily on to the back seat, forgetting the feminine etiquette involved in climbing in and out of vehicles. As the taxi cruised away I observed the young man through the rear window, his dark figure standing in the light of a store window, peering forlornly at the fleeing vehicle.
Despite almost being exposed, I had relished my outing in the guise of Lydia, and as I noticed the taxi driver leering at me through the rear view mirror my thoughts returned to the blonde man. I did not enjoy that particular experience one little bit -- it was horrendous. Yet strangely I became determined to seek out
the man, and to introduce him to Susan once more, the one I had re-christened Lydia. I was dying to witness the look on his face when he met with her again.
It was four nights before I discovered the blonde fellow once again, four nights of sitting by the window in that godforsaken cafe, eyeing each passer-by that drifted along the pavement. It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have worn one of my skins, but under the circumstances such a masquerade would have been
entirely inappropriate and impractical. I was suffering severe withdrawal symptoms because I was missing the buzz and the excitement of posing in those skins, but the relief I felt when I finally spotted the man made up for all that.
There was no mistaking his blonde hair which was most evident in the darkness, and I quickly left the cafe to begin a discreet pursuit through the streets. I had no inkling of his identity, nor of his relationship with Susan Kershaw. He could have been a boyfriend or husband or relative -- I didn't care either way though.
It wasn't long before he ventured into an empty street, and I seized the opportunity to introduce myself, quickening my pace in order to reach him. I approached with trepidation, for I had no idea of how he would react. I didn't fear him though -- I feared no-one.
"Excuse me," I called, and he suddenly halted and turned my way, his eyes dazzling and as blue as the ocean.
"Can I help you?" he asked, displaying a puzzled countenance.
There was no point in beating about the bush.
"I know where Susan is," I told him.
His reaction was somewhat predictable, for he then exploded in fury and attacked me physically with clenched fists, but that troubled me no more than when I encountered the four girls I had butchered, including Susan Kershaw.
"Calm down!" I cried, grabbing his wrists. "This will get you nowhere. Stop it, or I won't take you to where she is."
He continued delivering verbal abuse long after he ceased hitting me, and I couldn't really blame him for that, in fact I couldn't condemn him for his emotional response at all. Following a brief conversation he agreed to accompany me to my flat, for I had promised to reveal the whereabouts of Susan. He had no choice but to trust me, and the journey was made in virtual silence, as we walked through the dark streets in the direction of my home -- and my skins.
"Who are you anyway?" I asked him as we entered the flat. "Boyfriend? Husband?"
"Susan is my girlfriend," he retorted, followed by a volley of angry and blasphemous words.
He was really worked up over the whole thing, and I was in my element just watching him. I chuckled openly at his use of the present tense -- the poor sod thought she was still alive! I led him into the kitchen, and from my jacket produced a pair of handcuffs. His eyes gleamed when he saw them, and after a short struggle I managed to manacle him to the door handle. His wrists were quite slim, and I seriously thought he would be able to slip his hands free, but upon further investigation I discovered that he was indeed securely attached.
"What about Susan?" he demanded. "Where is she?"
"I'll fetch her."
It wasn't an idle promise, and I vanished to the bedroom to climb into his girlfriend's skin -- or rather, his ex-girlfriend's skin.
I took my time, lingering before the wardrobe mirror, admiring the reflection of the slender figure that gave me so much pleasure. It had to be perfect for the ultimate performance, I was determined to make myself as convincing as possible. Finally I was satisfied with my appearance, and with a racing heart I returned to the kitchen.
The blonde fellow's expression had to be seen to be believed -- even to this day I can't describe the look he gave me. I was tempted to start laughing, but of course that would have spoiled the deception. I felt as if I were on a stage, playing to a vast crowd, or in a film, portraying someone that I obviously was not. The feeling inside me was more intense than it had ever been.
"Susan!" he cried, and I approached him. He attempted to embrace me, but because of the cuffs he was only able to place one of his arms around my waist, drawing me closer and hugging me. The fool! He was taken in fully. However, his delight was short-lived, for he soon collapsed to the floor with an increasing dark red pool beneath him. He knew my face and where I lived, so my actions were understandable, and I checked he was dead before I wiped the blood from the knife.
Still wearing the skin -- I was thoroughly enjoying myself! -- I removed the cuffs and lifted him by the arms before dragging him across the kitchen floor. As I did so I spotted something strange, yet familiar, and I tugged down the collar at the back to reveal the skin there -- and the zipper. It was then that I began to regret my hasty actions. She and I could have been so good together.