Eighteen months saw Lena's skin stretched taut over Clara's enhancements, Vasquez's identity now just a whisper in the hollows of Angelo's bones. The knife waited in his locker, humming against the metal like a tuning fork struck at the exact frequency of Eleanor Whitlock-Ashford's pulse. He'd watched her at the gala—how the diamond choker never shifted when she turned her head, how her calves flexed like cello strings in those towering Louboutins. Diaz whimpered beneath him, her peach-perfect ass quivering with each thrust. The janitor's radio crackled with static. Vasquez smiled against her spine.
The cruiser sped toward Ashford's estate, Diaz's thighs still tacky with spent desire. Vasquez adjusted the rearview mirror. "I'm going after a serial killer lead," he lied to dispatch, voice crisp with borrowed boarding-school vowels. Diaz chewed her lip, fingers tracing the fresh bite marks beneath her blouse. She didn't ask why they were taking the service road. Didn't question the surgical gloves in the glovebox. The knife warmed against Angelo's thigh, its edge already dreaming of Eleanor's freckle. But before that, she'll take Diaz perfect butt.
The parking lot was a graveyard of shopping carts and shattered taillights. Diaz stepped onto the asphalt, her peach-perfect ass flexing beneath regulation slacks as she scanned empty spaces. "Sarge?" The word shattered against the knife's sudden kiss—its tip sliding between her ribs. Diaz gasped, hands flying to the wound, fingers coming away wet. Not with blood, but with something thicker. Darker. Vasquez watched, fascinated, as her flesh rippled like molten latex beneath the touch. "Nineteen months," he murmured, catching her collapsing form. "You were my best work."
Diaz's scream dissolved into wet silence as her body folded inward—skin loosening, muscles liquefying, until nothing remained but a pliable second skin draped over Vasquez's waiting arms. The knife hummed approval. He peeled the transformation like a stocking. Diaz's peach-shaped ass molded seamlessly to Clara's foundation, Vasquez's abs flexing beneath Lena's poreless overlay.
The estate wall swallowed him whole—stones parting like theater curtains for Lena's slender fingers. Angelo counted Eleanor's footsteps overhead, timed to the grandfather clock's arrhythmia. Fifteen days of surveillance had burned the floorplan behind his eyelids: here, the squeaky third stair; there, the loose parquet tile that would gasp under an intruder's weight.
Eleanor's study smelled of bergamot and betrayal. Angelo watched from the linen closet—breath synced to the arrhythmic tap of her Montblanc against ledger pages. The knife slid free with a whisper. She turned—too late—ice-blue eyes widening as steel kissed the freckle beneath her left eye.
Her transformation began at the throat. Eleanor's diamond choker sank into suddenly malleable skin as her scream warped into a wet, bubbling sigh. Porcelain flesh rippled—shoulder blades softening, sternum yielding—until her entire body collapsed inward like a deflated balloon. The knife pulsed eagerly as Angelo lifted the empty skin, Eleanor's patrician features now mere topography on a silken canvas.
Vasquez's triple-layered body hit the Persian rug with a muffled thud, Clara's pillowy breasts flattening against the wool as Angelo stood naked over Eleanor's discarded form. His erection jutted obscenely in the lamplight, glistening with Lena's residual slickness as he traced the aristocratic arch of Eleanor's hollowed cheekbone. "Perfect," he murmured, thumb catching on her single freckle—now floating in a sea of disconnected skin.
Three sharp knocks shattered the silence. "Ma'am?" The maid's muffled inquiry seeped through the mahogany door. "I heard noises from below is everything alright?" Angelo reacted instantaneously, Eleanor's skin unfolding like liquid silk between his fingers. He stepped into it with the practiced ease of slipping into a bespoke gown, feeling the membrane adhere to his contours. By the time his fingers reached for the door handle, Eleanor's contralto had crystallized in his throat. "A trifle, Margaret," came the glacial dismissal—every syllable perfectly calibrated to freeze further inquiry. "The ledger fell."
The maid's footsteps retreated down the corridor, but not before Angelo—now Eleanor—added, "Next time you presume to interrupt me, consider whether Cook County General pays as handsomely for your talents." The silence that followed was sweeter than Diaz's choked moans had been.
Eleanor's silk blouse whispered against itself as Angelo turned to the gilded cheval mirror, fingers tracing the unfamiliar topography of her collarbones. The reflection showed a stranger—a masterpiece of bone structure and breeding, yes, but one that hadn't yet settled into his musculature. Behind him on the Persian rug, Vasquez's discarded body sprawled in obscene contrast: Clara's voluptuous curves straining against Lena's flawless skin, Diaz's peach-perfect ass still twitching with residual nerve impulses. Eleanor's ice-blue gaze flickered with something almost like regret as she compared her own stolen silhouette to the abandoned flesh. "Such a waste," Eleanor's voice murmured, though Angelo's fingers lingered on the hollow where Vasquez's naval had been.
The mirror didn't lie: Eleanor's frame was elegance distilled—shoulders broad enough to command a boardroom but tapered to a waist that would make a corset weep.Eleanor's stolen fingers—manicured to within an inch of their life—dipped below the waistband of her skirt, and the gasp that escaped Eleanor's lips was pure Lena.
A floorboard creaked overhead—Geoffrey moving through their bedroom, oblivious to the carnage below. Angelo smiled Eleanor's smile, sharp as a scalpel. The knife hummed against her thigh where it hid beneath layered silk.
Eleanor's skinsuit peeled away with a whisper. Angelo stretched it on the rug like a surgeon's drape, smoothing the hollowed arms, flattening the elegant planes where her ribcage had been. His cock twitched at the clarity of her freckle—still floating in that perfect oval of face-skin. Behind him, Vasquez's triple-layered body lay sprawled open, Diaz's peach-soft ass gleaming in lamplight.
The knife slit Eleanor's throat first—a precise incision below her jawline that parted skin like tissue paper. Angelo worked methodically, separating her aristocratic cheekbones from the underlying muscle while Lena's fingertips registered the texture of Eleanor's pores—coarser than expected for someone who bathed in hundred-dollar creams. Each severed hand landed on Vasquez's abdomen with a wet slap, fingers twitching against Clara's abs before fusing seamlessly beneath Lena's glowing overlay.
Geoffrey's footsteps creaked directly overhead as Angelo positioned Eleanor's face-skin over lena's flawless face. The transformation wasn't absorption—it was alchemy. Lena's poreless complexion drank Eleanor's golden undertones, smoothing the patrician nose's sharp bridge into something softer yet equally commanding. Angelo traced the freckle's migration—now nestled perfectly below Lena's left eye—as Eleanor's icy gaze melted into violet.
Eleanor—no, *Angelo*—stood before the cheval mirror, fingertips skating over the newly fused topography of his stolen form. The reflection was a masterpiece of contradictions: Lena's poreless skin stretched taut over Clara's voluptuous foundation, now overlaid with Eleanor's aristocratic bone structure. He turned sideways, watching lamplight catch on the sharp angle of a newly acquired hipbone—an heirloom of Eleanor's horseback riding youth—that now protruded just enough to cast shadows over Diaz's still-quivering asscheeks embedded in the lower layers. The mirror didn't lie: patrician elegance coiled around raw, primal hunger beneath the surface.
His—*her*—hands slid up the slope of Eleanor's ribcage, pausing where the skin tightened over Clara's enhanced curves. The transition was seamless; no ridge marked where Eleanor's sternum melted into Clara's pillowy breasts, just a gradual swell that felt like silk over steel. Angelo pinched a nipple through the blouse, and three distinct shivers raced through the neural pathways—Lena's gasp, Clara's moan, Eleanor's suppressed shudder—all harmonizing into one breathy sigh that fogged the mirror. The sound was *perfect*: boarding-school restraint unraveling around a core of undisciplined want.
A draft from the vent carried the scent of Eleanor's abandoned perfume—Creed Aventus and something darker beneath—as Angelo twisted to examine the assembly of stolen assets from behind. Diaz's peach-perfect ass now perched atop Clara's muscular thighs like a decadent dessert on a silver platter, its bounce now tempered by Eleanor's natural poise. He squeezed, watching the flesh dimple and rebound with hybridized resilience. The knife's work was *art*: no Frankenstein seams, just an organic flow of stolen grace.
Eleanor's wardrobe proved less cooperative. The silk blouse—custom-fitted for her original 36-24-36 frame—strained against Clara's augmented bust with audible protest. Buttons threatened mutiny as fabric stretched tight over pillowy curves that had never existed in Eleanor's spin class routine. Angelo traced the gap between fastened buttons where the flawless cleavage peeked through, now tinted with Eleanor's golden undertones. The blouse's French seams groaned as he raised his arms—Eleanor's deltoids flexing beneath skin that remembered polo matches and charity galas—only for Vasquez's fit biceps to test the limits of couture craftsmanship.
The pencil skirt was worse. Eleanor's original measurements had accommodated narrow hips and a flat derrière; Diaz's stolen bounty forced the wool-blend fabric to stretch beyond its design parameters. The zipper refused to ascend past mid-thigh until Angelo—channeling Eleanor's surgical precision—gave a brutal tug that sacrificed the garment's lining. The resulting silhouette was obscene: Eleanor's tailored professionalism stretched taut over Clara's voluptuous foundation, the skirt's hem now riding high enough to showcase Lena's poreless thighs. A single freckle—Eleanor's sole imperfection—glowed beneath the left knee like a brand.
Beneath the blouse's strained fabric, Angelo tucked the remnants of Eleanor's discarded skin into Clara's cleavage. The aristocratic cheekbones folded neatly between papaya-sized breasts, patrician hands curling like sleeping doves against Lena's sternum. Every movement sent ripples through the hidden trove—Eleanor's skin whispering secrets against Clara's sweat-slicked flesh as Angelo adjusted the blouse to conceal the bulge of stolen identity.
The study door clicked open with Eleanor's signature precision—three-quarters pressure on the brass handle, never enough to startle. Outside, the corridor's gaslight flickered across startled faces as maids froze mid-step, their dusters hovering over Hepplewhite side tables. Angelo watched their pupils dilate through Eleanor's borrowed lashes—how the head housekeeper's gaze snagged on the impossible swell of Clara's cleavage straining against buttonholes meant for Eleanor's modest B-cups. A scullery maid dropped her coal bucket, black diamonds scattering across the parquet as she stared at the way Diaz's peach-perfect ass stretched the formerly demure pencil skirt into something worthy of a back-alley peepshow.
Eleanor's Louboutins—now accommodating Clara's wider arches—clicked a staccato rhythm toward the incinerator chute. Angelo hummed Lena's favorite lullaby as he fed Eleanor's discarded scraps to the flames: a patrician kneecap here, a hollowed-out thigh there. The fire roared approval, licking aristocratic DNA into oblivion while Diaz's asscheeks clenched in sympathetic heat beneath the skirt. By the time the chute clanged shut, only Eleanor's freckle remained—embedded in Lena's flawless cheek like a beauty mark painted by a lover's hand.
The master suite smelled of Geoffrey's cologne—Tom Ford's bitterness undercut by the musk of old-money insomnia. He looked up from his Wall Street Journal, reading glasses perched on a nose that had never known plastic surgery. The newspaper crinkled as his knuckles whitened around the edges; Angelo watched Geoffrey's pupils leap from Eleanor's glacier-blue gaze to the explosion of cleavage threatening his wife's pearl buttons. "Darling," Geoffrey managed, voice cracking on the second syllable, "did you... augment yourself?" His tongue darted out to wet lips suddenly gone dry—a reflex Angelo catalogued alongside Eleanor's memory of their first kiss, which had tasted of gin and actuarial tables.
Eleanor's stolen hands—manicured to perfection—traced Clara's impossible waistline, fingertips pausing where Diaz's stolen curves flared beneath the ruined skirt. "Do you prefer this silhouette, darling?" The question dripped with Lena's sweetness over Eleanor's crisp consonants. Geoffrey's Adam's apple bobbed as his gaze snagged on the way Eleanor's blouse gaped to reveal Clara's nipples—pink and pebbled against the crisp white cotton. Behind him, the antique grandfather clock ticked off seconds filled with the sound of Geoffrey's wedding band clinking against his whiskey glass. When he finally spoke, the words came out half-choked: "Christ, Eleanor... your *hips*—"
Angelo smiled Eleanor's smile—the one she'd used to dismantle hostile takeover bids—and peeled off the blouse with deliberate slowness. Buttons pinged against the four-poster bed's canopy as Clara's breasts surged free, Eleanor's golden undertones now gilding Lena's poreless skin. Geoffrey's newspaper slid to the Persian rug in a waterfall of stock quotes. "Shall we conduct a more thorough inspection?" Eleanor's voice purred—a sound that had never once escaped her lips in thirty-six years of patrician restraint. The knife hummed happily where it lay concealed beneath Diaz's discarded panties.
The silk sheets clung to Clara's sweat-slicked curves as Geoffrey mounted her—or rather, mounted *them*, his fingers sinking into layers of stolen flesh that quivered with hybridized pleasure. Angelo arched Eleanor's back, watching Geoffrey's pupils dilate when Diaz's peach-perfect ass bounced against his thrusts with a vulgar *slap* that would've made old-money ancestors blush in their portraits. Lena's moans harmonized with Clara's gasps as Eleanor's vocal cords shaped sounds she'd never permitted herself—a crescendo of debauchery that shattered the bedroom's chandelier crystals into prismatic rain.
Dawn found Geoffrey snoring into Clara's cleavage, his wedding band leaving indentations on Eleanor's hipbone. Angelo stretched Lena's limbs with feline satisfaction, feeling Diaz's asscheeks ripple against satin sheets as Eleanor's stolen muscles flexed. "Darling," Eleanor's voice cut through the hangover haze, fingertips tracing Geoffrey's receding hairline with Lena's gentleness and Eleanor's precision, "you haven't answered my question." The knife glinted from the nightstand where it lay beside Eleanor's ten-carat ring.
Geoffrey blinked up at the impossible geometry of his wife's new body—Eleanor's aristocratic shoulders tapering to Clara's voluptuous bust, Lena's thighs framing Diaz's obscene curves. He opened his mouth, closed it, then managed a strangled, "It's amazing." Eleano laugh—sharp as a scalpel—and rolled Diaz's hips in a slow, deliberate circle that made Geoffrey whimper. "Great," Eleanor's voice declared while Lena's fingers tightened in his hair, "because this is permanent."