I Look Just Like You (Redux) - Part 4

 

Later that night, Theo was standing in front of his sister’s closet. He had taken off his clothes and was wearing only her lacy, short-shorts and a faded tank top. Her underwear was visible beneath the shorts, a flash of white lace against his legs. Her closet door was open, and a jumble of her clothes lay on the floor.

With a chilling, possessive smirk that was entirely his own, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, at her face, and then down at the synthetic vagina Mom’s intern had so meticulously crafted.

Then, with one hand, he reached down and cupped the mound at the crotch, marveling at how real it felt beneath his palm. The texture was almost indistinguishable from skin, down to the subtle warmth where his own body heat had begun to permeate the silicone.

Theo had rifled the dresser drawers with a giggle, expecting to find only socks, tangled pairs of tights, a few scrunchies or a wrinkled t-shirt. Instead, his palm landed on something heavy, rigid, and cold. He clutched it by instinct, then recoiled, nearly dropping the thing to the floor. It was a vibrator—no, an absolute monster, thick as a baseball bat and luridly purple, its bulbous head sweating an oily film from the silicone. He stood in the middle of Sandy’s messy, trashed bedroom, the latex suit clinging to every inch of him, and the implication of his find seemed to vibrate in the air more than the object itself.

For a while, he couldn’t look at it. He jammed it back into the drawer, then closed it, opened it again, then stared at the handle poking between two folded pairs of underwear. It was as if the thing were a terrible secret he’d stumbled across by accident, a fragment of his sister’s interior life too raw to process. Yet, the longer he tried to ignore the thing, the more he thought about it.

He tried on all her outfits—skirts, the see-through blouse , the shorts that rode up so high they might as well have been underwear. He dabbed on her lip gloss, tried her favorite perfume.

Eventually, the object in the drawer drew him back. 

He didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t want to think about what it meant: that Sandy—uptight, ambitious, chronically awkward Sandy—owned a toy this size, that she’d used it here, in this room, in this very bed.

He tried to distract himself by rearranging her shoes in the closet, lining them up in neat, unsettling parallels, then by alphabetizing the books on her shelf, but his gaze was magnetized to the dresser.

He found himself standing in front of the open drawer once again, the purple cylinder gleaming up at him like a forbidden artifact. He picked up the toy with both hands, surprised by its weight, the confident density of silicone. He thumbed the switch at the base, felt the whole thing come alive in his grip.

It wasn’t even that he wanted to use the thing, not really. It was more that he couldn’t not—or at least couldn’t leave the question unanswered. Was the suit really that detailed? Had they gone so far as to engineer the anatomy, down to this?

He sat on the bed, and rested the toy in his lap, staring at the faint seam of the latex’s synthetic cleft, then at the mirror across the room. The girl in the reflection—his sister’s body—regarded him with a look of horrified fascination.

His first attempt was tentative. He pressed the rounded nose of the vibrator against the molded slit. Nothing happened except a faint, sticky sound as the silicone met the latex. He pressed harder, convinced it would just bounce off, but the suit gave a little, the seam parting slightly to accept the pressure. Theo swallowed. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and every muscle in his body seemed electrified with anticipation or dread.

The second try, he angled the tip and pushed with more force. The head of the toy wedged into the channel, and the opening yielded, stretching open with a shockingly organic resistance. The sensation was alien—he could feel the pressure against his own body, the gentle push on his groin filtered through an inch of latex and whatever padding the suit used to create the illusion of flesh. Yet the suit itself felt disturbingly alive, the interior lined with something softer, more yielding, as if welcoming the intrusion.

His hand shook so badly that he had to steady himself against the bedframe. The vibrator thrummed in his grip, the noise almost comical in the stillness of the room. He pushed further, and the toy slid another inch into the cavity, the latex around it bulging in a way that made him feel nauseated and triumphant at the same time.

He let out a high, nervous laugh.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, his voice muffled and uncanny inside the mask, “You freaks.”

He couldn’t help himself. He rocked the toy back and forth, testing the depth, the spring of the latex, the way the seam closed tightly around the shaft when he let go. He thought of Sandy, the real Sandy, using this thing on herself.

He felt like a total perv. He’d never imagined himself touching a vibrator like this. Let alone his own sister’s. Let alone considering inserting it …inside himself (even if it wasn’t really “inside”). His heart beat through his chest. 

The toy slid in another inch, then another. 

At first, nothing. The latex absorbed the vibration, barely transmitting anything but a faint tickle to his own flesh. But the illusion—God, the illusion—was perfect. He leaned closer to the mirror, studying the way her (his) synthetic labia gripped the purple shaft, the subtle way the skin puckered around it, clinging and stretching just as a real body would.

Theo’s other hand, emboldened now, crept up beneath the tank top and cupped the falsified breast. The latex yielded with a gentle resistance, soft and springy, indistinguishable from flesh except for its faint, uncanny warmth. He squeezed experimentally, feeling the way the suit hugged his true body.

He watched himself—herself—caress the latex breast, thumb circling the fake nipple, and shivered at how effortless the motion was. Like it belonged to him, now. Like this could be his body, if he wanted.

With every careful adjustment, the toy pushed the latex canal open in a new way, creating a tightness, a pressure, a warmth. He could feel the vibrations, dulled but still insistent, travel up through the cavity into the secret, compressing fold where his own genitals were ducted and reconfigured by the interior sleeve of the suit.

He closed his eyes, allowed the sense of dislocation to overwhelm him. He fantasized that he was the real Sandy. The idea made his heart race, his breath catch.

“Oh, yes. Fuck me, baby,” he whispered in Sandy’s voice, as if addressing an imaginary boyfriend.

He dug his painted nails into the fake flesh of his breast, squeezing hard, using the pain as an anchor while the rest of him dissolved into pleasure. The toy was deep inside now, pushing up against something exquisitely sensitive, a point in the suit’s inner lining that aligned perfectly with the spot where his own cock was folded down, pressed flat and encased in slick, heat-conducting latex.

He came, hard, inside the suit. The pressure in the suit’s groin sleeve released all at once, and he felt a surge of wetness, hot and almost shameful, flooding the interior of the latex. He yanked the toy out and watched as a milky thread of his own cum oozed out of the synthetic vagina, sliding down the inner thigh.