I decided I would try to act like Amber and go along with the family. I would act like a teenager, and I would do whatever they wanted me to do. I would pretend to be happy and enjoy my vacation. What was there to fear about this family? They were just like me, trying to figure out how to behave in an unfamiliar environment. But deep down, I would be feeling terrified and trapped.
I spent hours looking in the mirror, trying to perfect my act, practicing lines. I was scared that if I made a mistake, the family would find out that I was really not really their daughter, Amber.
I must have looked pretty good, because the family started treating me like their own daughter. I quickly settled into my new role as a teenager. They were welcoming and caring, and I felt like I belonged as much as was possible.
Occasionally, someone in the family would make a reference to my original body, and I would tense up in fear that they would realize that I was not really their daughter. But they always seemed to miss the subtle clues that I was not really Amber, and they continued to treat me like their own daughter.
Eventually, I started to see my situation as a blessing in disguise. If no one else knew who I really was, and if for all intents and purposes I appeared to be a teenage girl, I could act like a stereotypical young woman and enjoy this new body.
A feminine face looked back at me when I gazed upon the mirror, and a soft figure filled out my clothing. A reflection of a young, teenage girl stared back at me when I gazed upon the mirror. She had large eyes and full lips, with raised cheekbones that framed her face like a picture frame around a delicate portrait. Her hair was long and brown, and fell in tresses over her shoulders. The features were my own but distorted.
My fingertips grazed the soft skin of my neck, trailing down to my chest. Cupping my supple breasts in the palms of my hands, I felt their weight and shape. A smile bloomed on my lips as I reveled in the sensation, savoring the curves and valleys that made up my femininity. The fabric of my shirt shifted under my touch, soft and warm against my skin. Every inch of me seemed alive and vibrant, pulsing with a newfound sensuality that was impossible to ignore.
Who was I kidding? This was my body for now! I could do whatever I wanted with it. My wife doesn't have to know.
I could be promiscuous. I was female. I could have sex with men.
I learned that the girl whose body I was in had a boyfriend. I wondered how that felt for her, to be a young teenage girl in love. Then I imagined myself as the teenage girl I had become.
I looked closely at a photo of her and her boyfriend kissing. I touched my lips, wondering what that felt like for her. What did she find attractive about him, I wondered?
His smile, maybe? His eyes? Or did she maybe appreciate the way his body fit against hers?
So, I kissed the photo of the girl and her boyfriend, and I felt a thrill of pleasure. I was no longer a 52-year-old man. I was the teenage girl from the picture, and I was in love.
I felt a stirring inside of me. I was different now, after all. I was a teenage girl, and I could love whoever I wanted.
My eyes lingered on his lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. I imagined my fingers brushing over the line of his jaw and feeling the soft whorls of hair behind his ear. My mind tickled a touch across my nipples and down my stomach. Without thinking, I touched myself…the way I would imagine he would touch me.
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