Demons Are Only Skin Deep - Chapter 1

 The notification came at exactly 6:17pm:

“Your order has been delivered.”

James’s heart leapt. He’d only meant to check his phone for a moment. Already he’d resigned himself to a very ordinary evening, where he’d eat his ordinary little dinner, then later, after hours of web browsing, go to his very ordinary little bed. But that notification, that little glowing rectangle on the screen, was all that was needed to turn the rest of his day (and night) completely upside-down.

It didn’t even make sense. He’d already gotten the e-mail that the delivery was delayed ‘til tomorrow, and it was well past the estimated delivery time. No one had even knocked!

He bolted to his feet, abandoning a freshly cooked bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese, and shuffled as fast as he could towards the front door. His hand trembled as it undid the deadbolt and chain, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open. Looking down he saw nothing on the mat. ‘Maybe they made a mistake,’ he thought? Then he glanced right...

...and there it was, two and a half feet tall and three feet wide: a brown cardboard box, totally innocuous and unadorned except for the packing tape and shipping label.

Stepping out barefoot he leaned down to pick it up, only just catching the footsteps of the delivery guy reaching the bottom of the stairs leading down from his third floor apartment.

“Thank you!” he hollered.

“Yep” the delivery guy hollered back.

James glanced left, then right, making sure nobody could see him. Not that anyone would have questioned someone carrying a package in from their doorstep, but considering the contents his paranoia got the better of him.

The box was surprisingly light, but unwieldy, so James had to contort himself a bit to accommodate both it and him in the door frame. Once inside he quickly closed the door behind him and redid the locks. After setting the box down on the ground next to the dining room table, he sat back down to finish his dinner.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to open the box now, he did. So why wasn’t he? Maybe he didn’t want to rush things. Maybe he wanted to wrap up everything he was doing so there would be no interruptions. Or maybe, now that he was safe with it, he wanted to build draw the moment out. Build anticipation.

Slowly he scooped his food, which made a wet, squelching noise as it separated. With each gooey, artificially cheesy bite he’d glance at the package, and the thrill would fill him. ‘That’s it,’ he thought, ‘that is it. It’s right there, sealed in that box, just waiting for me. She is waiting for me.’

In two minutes he was done. With one swig he downed his glass of water and stood back up, leaving his dishes where they were. Grabbing a pair of scissors from the nearby counter, he walked back to the box, leaned down, then opened the scissors to their widest, and using one blade sliced open the packing tape seal as best he could. Pushing his fingers through the opening, he tore the remaining sealant until the box was completely open. He looked inside: just packing peanuts.

Then, he remembered: the blinds! Before pulling anything out he had to make sure there was no chance of anyone seeing. He went to the sliding glass door in the living room area that led to the balcony and twisted the stick that closed the blinds, leaving the area dark save for what little ambient light slipped between the slats.

Returning to the package he grabbed the box by the lip and slid it down the hall and into his bedroom, setting it down next to his bed. He closed the door, rounded the bed and closed the blinds there as well, then went over to his bedside lamp, reached in, and twisted the knob, bathing the room in a sleepy, orange glow.

That was it. He was all set now. Nothing left to prepare.

Returning to the package he took a deep breath and plunged his hands into it’s contents. Immediately he felt a sensation that sent his heart to orbit: skin, smooth skin. Not really skin, of course, but indistinguishable. There were forms too: round, squishy, but also firm and well-shaped. Once his fingers got enough of a handle he lifted the contents out, sending a cascade of packing peanuts onto the floor.

The first thing that emerged was a head. Her features were sharp and angular, skin crimson, lips plump and full and coated in a glistening black sheen. A mop of perfectly straight, shoulder length black hair rained down the side and back of her head, and beneath that, protruding near the temples: a pair of horns, two inches, matched by two long, pointed ears. Her eyes were closed, and her expression listless. Following the head: the neck, then the shoulders, and then her breasts, which hung from the suit’s torso in their massive, perky, teardrop glory. Flanking these were a pair of lithe, muscular arms.

Once he reached the waist, James laid down what he’d already pulled out onto the bed, then reached in again, feeling for a set of thick, hourglass hips. As those emerged he caught a brief glance of the suit’s pussy peeking out from between it’s thighs. Pausing, he thought to push a leg aside to get a better view, but an inner urgency compelled him to continue. Following that were the legs, similarly toned to the arms, the last bit being her bare, claw-tipped feet. James pulled the box away and let the legs hang over the edge of the bed. Only the padded curves kept their shape, the rest collapsed in a hollow heap.

There she was, laid out right in front him, exactly like the drawings he’d commissioned. She was the instrument of his ultimate fantasy made flesh, his second skin, all thanks to the amazing technological advances Eroticorp LLC.

James reached into the box again and pulled out the only remaining contents: a hefty, half-inch thick book. On the cover in sharp, clinical lettering: “Synthetiskin: Demon Model: User’s Manuel.” He leafed through the pages absentmindedly, then tossed it onto the bed next to the skin. He’d already watched hours of videos on it. Everything from maintenance tips, technical breakdowns, and yes, even demonstrations. He knew the whole thing front and back, inside and out. The only thing he hadn’t had was actual, firsthand experience.

Of course, that was about to change.

He wanted to say he wasn’t scared, that the weeks of anticipation while his order was being crafted, packaged, and shipped had burned away any lingering doubts. This was a line he was about to cross, one he couldn’t cross back. If he’d had these feelings a week or so ago maybe he would have changed his mind, but seeing the skin, the skin of his hidden, other self right there in front of him, he knew this was inevitable.

It was time. Time to become her. Time to become Scythia, daughter of the abyss.

With both hands he grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it off in a single motion. This was real. This was happening. Hands fumbling he unbuttoned his jeans, and with his thumbs pinched the waistlines of both his pants and boxer-briefs. He was slower removing these, shimmying his waist to-and-fro in a make-shift, ritualistic dance.

‘God I’m pathetic’ he thought, chuckling.

Once his pants had dropped to his ankles he lifted one leg up, carefully slipping his foot through as his hand pulled the hole open to clear any obstruction. Once that was through, he hopped on his free leg so he could do the same with the other more easily.

Finally, legs free, he pinched off his socks, and with that he was naked as the day he was born.

He stood there a moment, dick at half mast, his breath quickening. Glancing over his shoulder he spied the back of his body reflected the full-length mirror he’d set against the wall. He wasn’t bad looking. Lately he’d been exercising, at least when he could, but even at 27 he never quite filled out like his friends did. It wasn’t his body that bothered him, though. Not really. There was something else that ate at him. Something elusive. Something sated, at least for a moment, when he separated himself from himself and imagined himself as someone else. Not himself, HERself. He’d stopped trying to pin it down as something sexual, spiritual, or identity related a long time ago. All he knew was that he needed this.

He looked into his own eyes, tilted his head, and smirked. There was an unfamiliar haughtiness in his eyes. A kind of arrogance that thrilled him. He turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror. Glancing down at the suit to his right, he traced his way up her side with a finger all along her ample curves from her hips all the way up the side of her breasts until he finally reached her shoulders. There he grabbed her and lifted her up, turning her about so that the back faced him.

There was no visible seam, no hint of any opening with which he could enter. Lowering her between his legs he parted the back of her hair. If he remembered right, the separation point was somewhere near the base of the neck. Panic gripped him as he felt around for it. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the moment by pouring over some dry-ass instruction manual.

Just as he was about the give up…

“There you are” James whispered.

A single point, almost invisible, but with enough give that a single finger could find purchase. Wasting no time he plunged that finger in and immediately felt the gelatinous slime of the suit’s interior lining. He wedged another finger in, then another, then another. He brought his other hand in all at once, and using his legs to anchor the whole thing he tore the back of the upper back of the suit open with one, massive yank.

James was very familiar with the sound of bio-mesh tearing. What he wasn’t ready for was the smell. It seemed almost antiseptic, but it was so strong and so musky that it seemed somehow both utterly sterile and absolutely filthy at the same time.

Pulling the back open wider allowed some light in, which revealed an interior made entirely made up of a pink, fleshy material coated in glistening slime, or as the videos called it: “synthetic bio-interface gel.” The videos promised the slime wouldn’t stick to the body on removal, but looking at how thick and goopy it seemed lathered in there James had his doubts. The whole thing seem more biological than technological. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around how it worked.

With the back wide open, James began his entry. Lifting both legs he fed them into the cavity, which now stretched from the neck all the way down to just above the suit’s ‘tail bone.’ At first he tried to go as far as he could without touching the edge, like a kinky game of operation, but once his right toe touched the lining it was game over. Immediately he felt a surge of energy. The suit’s interfacers at work.

Jutting out both legs he yanked the suit towards himself, both limbs penetrating into their respective slots without even a hint of resistance. Further and further they slid through the muscly, mucous-lined passage, the flesh stretching and shrinking to accommodate even his modestly sized limbs. Finally, with a pop, the feet found their demonic counterparts. Instinctively James tried to pull out, but the suit hugged his legs just enough to keep them from sliding or moving. Already he could feel the tingle of the nano-mechanisms blending his nervous system with the suits. He wiggled his toes experimentally and Scythia’s clawed toes matched his movements. The euphoria was instant.

James stood, still holding the suit by it’s shoulder blades. Already the suit was feeding him sensations. He was even starting to feel the carpet between his toes. No time to investigate, though. After all, there was the issue of the next step to think about.

He looked down inside at the inner lining of the suit’s crotch. Just like the videos said there were two flesh nubs, one situated where his ass would sit (which would penetrate him anally), the other would line up with where his new vagina would be. From what the videos said this would be on his perineum, just behind where his balls were. This was the part that made him most nervous...and most excited. Again, James couldn’t wrap his head around how it worked, but everything he read or heard said it was completely safe.

“And who on earth would lie on the internet” James said, smirking.

Eyes scanning upwards, James finally caught sight of what he was looking for: a slit. James grabbed his dick, now fully erect, and lined up the tip with the yonic entrance, only just parting it enough to prepare for what came next.

This was it. After this there was absolutely no going back. As a precaution the suits were built with a five hour cooldown time to prevent rapid biological disruption. He wouldn’t be able to remove any part of the suit for that period of time. In other words: trapped.

He decided to count down, giving his brain one more chance to talk him out of it. Even after taking off the suit in the future he knew he’d never be the same again.

“One hard pump,” the videos said, “that’s the trigger.”

“Five...four...”

The second thoughts crept in. He could still stop this.

“three...two...”

Oh shit, he was about to do it.

“one...”

With a powerful thrust he shoved his dick into the sheath. Immediately the lining ballooned to softly engulf his balls. He looked down trying to catch one last glimpse of the process, but before he could the hips of the suit clamped down around his in a vice grip.

“Oh fuck...” he gasped.

The nub at his ass sprang to life, shoving it’s way up and into him with startling force and speed. James screamed. Immediately he felt his prostate spasm and a rush of jizz erupted through his quickly numbing genitals. He didn’t have time to think about what was happening or where his dick was going, because he felt the vaginal nub probe just under his balls, right where the videos said it would. At first it just pressed. Then it pressed further, deeper than it had any right to. There was no pain, just a strange feeling, like his insides were being rearranged. Deeper and deeper it pushed. James trembled, eyes closed, mouth open. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any deeper it did, until finally it stopped.

James’s breaths came in shudders. Immediately he reached around and touched the front of the suit’s crotch. Perfectly flat. No sign a dick was ever there. As his fingers wandered down they found folds of the suit’s labia – HIS labia. His hands shook, but he still managed to slip two fingers into the slit and into his new and fully functioning vagina. He got two knuckles deep before pulling them out. Not much feeling, but he knew what would fix that.

Opening the back of the suit again he shoved his arms into their cavities, feeding their hungry counterparts until they slid into place like gloves, he held his hands up, flexing the clawed fingers, admiring them. He smirked, feeling the vanity of a succubus rise inside him.

Cupping underneath the suit’s massive breasts and began lifting them towards his chest. As he did James noticed the back of the suit knitting shut from the small of his back upwards, enveloping more and more of his torso. As soon as the inside lining of the breasts made contact, the back had completely sealed, and the suit’s upper body immediately began to tighten, cinching at the waist. By now the interfacing had begun to finalize in is feet and legs, but it was slow going, like it wanted him to do something first.

But James waited. He looked at his face in the mirror. He studied his nose, his lips, his shaggy hair, and finally, his blue eyes. That’s when he realized it wasn’t James looking back at him, it was Scythia.

“Oh you lucky, lucky boy” he said theatrically “you’re about to become me. Now I know how you feel, but me? Why I think your body will make a fine host for my slutty, slutty desires.” A bit much. James realized he probably should have rehearsed this part. “Put on my mask, James. Finish your transformation into the demon slut you’ve always wanted to be. Give yourself to me. Let us become one.”

His ample chest heaved. James’ clawed hands reached into whatever purchase they could find on the back of the suit’s neck and tugged, pulling it open with all it’s might until there was finally enough room to slide his head in.

He glanced up one more time at his reflection.

“Buh-bye James” he said, bouncing an eyebrow “buh-bye.”

Taking one more deep breath, James pulled the mask up, stretching it as far as it could go, then dove head first, pressing the top of his skull into the hole. He pressed and pressed, wondering if he was doing it right, until suddenly the mask slid frictionlessly over his head.

The back of the suit snapped shut completely. Immediately, two tubes shoved their way up his nose and merged with his nasal lining, allowing him to breath. The inner lining shifted to line up a mouth piece, which James bit down on and slid his tongue into. Once his teeth and tongue were secure, the mouth piece extended into a probuscus which expanded along the inside of his mouth, past his uvula, and down his throat until finally wrapping around his vocal cords. James moaned, but his voice came out computerized, oscillating between octaves.

The whole suit seemed to squeeze at once, pressing down on it’s host body from every direction. The interfacing spread rapidly up his body, breaking down his sense of touch and merging it with the suit’s. Suddenly his whole body seized. He felt a growing warmth in his abdomen, blossoming into the unmistakable sensation...then past it. It spread from the torso up his spine, into his breasts, along his limbs and into his brain when…

“AAAAAAaaahhhhhh!!!”

James’ world went white as he toppled backwards onto the bed. His whole body bucked and shook in it’s consummation. Finally, the fire faded, her eyes opened, and a shuddering gasp escaped her lips. All at once she became keenly aware of the weight of her chest expanding up and down and her back, arms, and hands soaking in the fuzzy texture of her comforter. Most importantly, she felt the cool air graze her pussy and nipples, pumping her body with a steady stream of arousal. As the final hints of tingling subsided, she realized she could move again, and in a snap, she sat up.

The first thing she saw was the mirror, and her eyes went wide.

Staring back at her, with almond-shaped eyes and yellow irises, was a demon seductress of the highest order, her voluptuous form apparent even seated. All the same she stood. Her mane of straight black hair cascaded down to her shoulders. She turned her head, examining her now fully animate features. Her plump lips opened and closed with each breath, revealing each time two rows of pearly white teeth. With one claw she hooked the side of her mouth and pulled upwards, revealing prominent fangs where her canines used to be. That made her grin. On impulse she stuck her tongue out, which rolled out a few inches longer than expected, ending with a snakelike fork.

She giggled, her voice a husky alto. It worked. James was gone, buried beneath the skin of a succubus of his own design. She was now Scythia, daughter of the abyss.

Stepping back Scythia struck a haughty pose, running her fingers through her mane and gyrating her hips. Her hands slid down her face, then her neck, then her breasts, then by her flank, until they reached her hips, where they finally slipped off.

It felt real. It all felt real. Better than real.

Scythia’s other self had experimented with silicone masks and other trappings before. They were nice, and sometimes even looked good if you were squinting in the right light, but once the initial high of donning it wore off it was hard not to feel a bit stupid. It was rubber, after all. Just rubber.

Not this, though. To say her new apparel surpassed her wildest expectations would be a gross understatement.

First thing was first: time to document the occasion. Scythia grabbed her phone from the bedside table and opened the camera, her claws clicking against the screen as she swiped. Back at the mirror she tried her best to look sexy, snapping pic after pic of her posing reflection, but no matter how much she popped her hips or jutted her breasts out, none of it seemed like enough. Scrolling through the pics her disappointment swelled. The surface was there, but something underneath was missing. Maybe pictures weren’t enough.

Changing the camera to video she aimed at the mirror and hit play. Swaying her hips and running her fingers through her hair was the first thing she tried. After that she pouted her lips, eyes fixed on the lens. She had to say something. Anything.

“Mmm...I feel so...” she sucked in a deep breath “...yummy.”

‘Really?’ she thought ‘Batman Returns? Fucking nerd.’

She needed something else, something sexier. Her eyes darted up and down her reflection, until like a magnet they latched on something she knew she couldn’t avoid any longer.

Her heart beat fast, eyes half closed, her brain soaked in a sudden sexual tide. Parting her legs just enough she exposed her newly formed pussy to it’s audience of one. Already she could feel the suit’s ‘blood’ pumping into it, swelling her labia, her synthetic glands working overtime to coat it in glistening secretions.

Scythia barely had time to hit stop before she dropped her phone onto the floor.

With two fingers she pressed down on her clit and rubbed, and with her other hand cupped one of her breasts and squeezed ever so slightly. The feeling was instant and her knees buckled, pulling a laugh from deep inside her. She couldn’t stop herself, and every second of continued stimulation turned her legs more and more into jelly. With whatever will-power she had left, she forced her new body to behave for just a moment and stumbled backwards, throwing herself onto her bed back first.

“Mmmm...so hot” she moaned, writhing, her hand leaving her breasts and running through her hair again. “Uhhh...I’m so fucking hot!” The vague pathetic ring of what she was saying only barely registered.

She brought her knees up, her toned abs tightening. With every writhing adjustment the layers of blankets cradling her naked back twisted. Her rubbing became feverish, to the point where every few strokes her fingers would slip inside herself, drawing a yelp as her claws occasionally scratched. Straining, she craned her neck forward, catching only a glance at her masturbating reflection before a spasm launched her head back onto the mattress.

Finally, the familiar heat blossomed in her pelvis. A light tingling, which radiated from her artificial womb outward, surged quickly to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Cum for me baby” she said, crying, unable to close her mouth “cum for me!”

“Cum for me” she tried saying it again, but all that came out were gasps.

The bloom erupted into an inferno. Any semblance of coherent thought left her, leaving only a command from her senses: keep going. Just keep going.

Then, all at once, she came.

“NNNGGAAAAAAAAAaaaaaahhh...AAAAAAAaaaaaahhhhh…”

White. A pure electric white surged through her brain at least twice as powerful as the one before and three times as long. Consciousness evaporated. All that remained was the feeling itself possessing her over and over until finally it faded, and the other colors of existence slowly seeped back in.

Scythia couldn’t think straight. The fact that she’d already started rubbing herself again barely even registered. Freed from the limits of a male refractory period her compulsion to maintain what she just felt verged on madness. For the next hour and a half Scythia the Succubus pleasured herself by whatever means possible. When her fingers grew sore, improvisation became necessary. There was no limit to the things that found there way inside her. The only self-reflection her desperate mind allowed was brief concern that her apartment walls wouldn’t be thick enough to contain her carnal screams.

Then, as suddenly as she started, she stopped.

As advertised as it was, the suit’s augmented stamina did, in fact, have limits. Muscles twitching and nerves fried, Scythia laid splayed out on her bed, her hormone-addled brain slowly recovering from the self-imposed onslaught. Normal consciousness soon began imposing itself. She quickly became keenly aware of the puddles of artificial discharge that had formed on her only recently washed bedspread. She didn’t move, though. All she wanted to do now was stare at her ceiling, feel her new body’s sensations course through her, and hear the soft sound of her voice as she breathed in and out and in and out.

And for the next twenty minutes that’s exactly what she did.

Soon boredom seeped in, and while not keen to throw herself into the heat of hedonism again Scythia figured she might as well do something useful with her remaining time. What, though? Three hours was a long time, after all.

Shifting again she felt more discharge stick to her leg. Not thinking she reached down and scooped up a glob of the stuff with her index finger, holding it up to the light. It certainly looked real, though he knew it wasn’t. It was an artificial substance produced rapidly by the suit via the host’s own bodily fluids (male hosts obviously requiring more processing). With her thumb she squished the goop, then rubbed.

“Yeah” she thought “definitely need to clean that.”

Rolling off the bed in one smooth motion she looked down at her bed to appraise the situation. She sighed. No linens were spared. Pulling everything up in a big, soaked ball she hauled her bedspread out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the little laundry nook at the far end. Shifting her arms, she freed one hand while still holding her load in her arms and pried up the lid of the washing machine. Her breasts made it harder to balance everything, but she managed. Stuffing everything in, she poured in the detergent, then a bit extra, then closed the lid, and pressed go.

Even after an hour and a half of self-pleasure, something about doing every day tasks as a woman seemed uniquely exciting to her. Next the dishes, then a quick vacuum. Pretty soon all her chores were done and Scythia was again left with nothing to do.

Two and a half hours to go.

Suddenly, the air conditioning rumbled to life. As the first lashes of cooled air licked her flesh, Scythia became keenly aware of her nakedness again. Not that she felt especially cold. While the suit would detect and register “coldness” the suit was capable of withstanding temperatures well below freezing. Still, she thought, some clothes were in order.

Scythia sauntered over to the bathroom, pulled open the curtain and started the water. Right before she pulled the switch for the shower and impulse struck her. She grabbed the temperature knob firmly, and with two twists cranked the heat up as high as she could. When she stepped in, the heat registered, but there was no pain. Within minutes the room was filled with enough steam to obscure the other side of the already tiny room. Scythia luxuriated in it, letting the streams of scalding liquid pour over her form, drizzling off her tits and ass like waterfalls. She even soaked her hair, feeling the artificial strands cling to her neck with every stroke of her scalp.

Once every fleck of crusted cum had been purged from her skin, she turned the water off, stepped out, and dried herself with her towel. She barely needed it, though, as the water seemed to evaporate off her within seconds – even her hair, which remained perfect even without styling.

Back in her bedroom she made a beeline for the dresser, and immediately, her lack of preparation for her new form became apparent. No panties, so she had to wear a pair of her male self’s boxer briefs. The only pants that fit were a pair of worn-out sweatpants, which even with their loosened, age-worn elastic, were still difficult to get them over her hips. She tried an old t-shirt with an N64 logo, but found that her breasts would keep her from pulling the hem down lower than her belly button. Exposed midriff was not what she was going for. Eventually she settled on a grey sweatshirt, which at least seemed to match her pants.

She checked her outfit in the mirror and sighed, biting her lip. Despite it’s bagginess, her breasts pressed noticeably outwards against her sweatshirt, the outline of her nipples very apparent against the stretched fabric. Her sweatpants, too, were hiked well above her ankles. Not ideal, but it was the best she could do, at least for now. There was even a kind of “comfort-core” charm to it, like she was wearing a lover’s clothes.

After a few seconds of turning and light posing, a familiar “blip” sounded off behind her, coming from the computer in the corner. Scythia walked over, pulled out her gaming chair, and shook the mouse, awakening her monitor and confirming her suspicions. A discord message. It was Vlad, a Russian guy she played games with.

“Hey James, up for some PUBG? Room for one more.”

As funny as she found the idea of him reacting to her new voice, she had no interest at all in connecting Scythia to James in anyone’s mind.

“Later” she typed “bit busy.”

She hit enter and her computer froze. She’d been meaning to buy new parts, speed things up a bit, but the money she’d earmarked for that was now wrapped around her body. Eventually, though, the message went through.

“OK” Vlad quickly followed up, and that was that.

Sitting back, the urge to just waste away her remaining time gaming and web browsing was strong. She may be sealed inside the skin of a sex goddess, but despite it’s augmentations she was still fundamentally the same underneath. There was almost a comfort in that.

Before doing anything else, though: she had to check the Demonhead Forums. Her claws made it a bit difficult to type, but luckily she went to this site often enough that the auto-complete filled in the rest and all she had to do was hit enter.

Scythia had been on the Demonhead Forums for six years now, four of those with an account. It wasn’t “official.” No-one from Eroticorp actually had any say on how the site was run, but despite that it had taken on a more or less defacto role as the online social center for Demonheads in the US – “Demonheads,” of course, being an informal name for Synthetiskin enthusiasts. The occasional fan page on mainstream social media had popped up here and there, even some discord servers too, but none of them lasted long. Even as forum based communities fell out of style, the Demonhead forums remained, not despite, but because of that. Social media was all about pulling in new audiences after all, and drawing the attention of the mainstream was not something in most Demonheads’ cared for.

Insularity provided certain protections, after all.

No real names were ever used. The reason it took two years for Scythia to create an account was that your first suited name (or future suited name) was traditionally what you used. The idea of Scythia was born during one especially horny night of browsing, and crystallized through commissioned art pieces that piled up in the dark corners of her hard drive. In that sense, she’d existed long before she donned her skin.

“The skin is just the other self manifesting,” as the discussion threads theorized.

Scythia clicked the “create post” button and began typing.

People announcing the first wearing of their new skins was a familiar ritual. Long essays about how they feel, the ecstasy of first bonding, and even their future plans, were familiar enough that they became a genre in and of themselves. James had spent long nights reading archived “birthing” posts, and it was one night of particularly fervent browsing that had inspired him to finally take the plunge and buy a skin for himself. Now here she was.

Scythia wasn’t much for speeches though. Her brief write-up done, she gave it a once over, then clicked post. Within a minute there were already four replies.

“Congrats! Welcome to the club, sister!”

“So jealous! Mine won’t come for another month.”

“I wish I was you. Fundie parents would disown me if they found out about my other. I barely get away with being on here as it is.”

The last reply struck her.

“Pics gurl!!!”

Often folks would post selfies of their freshly suited selves, even do professional shoots they’d prepared and paid for well ahead of time. Not Scythia though. Even the idea of images of herself in her apartment floating around online (where nothing is truly deleted) made her queasy. Rationally she knew there was next to no chance of someone tying her to James, but the risk wasn’t zero. For now her phone storage and personal hard drives were the only places those images would live.

Minutes later, another post:

“So when can we expect your public debut?”

There was another question. Would she ever go outside? Let other people see this side of her? She couldn’t deny her desire to be seen, but all she ever planned to do was wear the suit privately every once in a while. Was there really a plan, though? She never even bought any clothes.

For reasons she didn’t understand, instead of just typing “Not for a while, if ever,” she typed:

“I don’t exactly live somewhere that welcomes our sort.”

Our sort...it felt good to type that.

Then, another reply:

“What state do you live in?”

She didn’t want to give out personal details, but a state seemed vague enough.

“Pennsylvania” she replied.

She waited, and yet another reply came two minutes later:

“If you live close enough it might be worth giving Club Tartarus a shot. Ever hear of it? I heard it’s pretty great.”

Club Tartarus. Of course she’d heard of it. A night club exclusive to Synthetiskin wearers. Places like that had popped up all over the country the past two decades in just about ever major city, and even some minor ones. Among those establishments, Club Tartarus in particular was familiar to Scythia since, as big a state as Pennsylvania was, Club Tartarus just happened to be the one closest to her.

This felt like a sign. She knew that the suits didn’t directly alter the wearer’s brain, but something about the way her body tingled at the thought of going felt compulsive. It energized her, made her excited. The thought of seeing other Demonheads in the flesh, being nothing to them other than Scythia, germinated desires she never thought she had. No one there would know or care who James was. Whatever pretensions she had that Scythia would only ever live online and in this apartment evaporated. She had no school anymore. No work tomorrow. Why not?

The thought of getting something...more from her time there peeked it’s head, but she quickly stuffed it back down.

“Too much” she said “for now just...go in and meet people.”

Smiling, she pushed back her chair and stood, striding out of the bedroom towards the front door. Her sneakers didn’t fit her, so instead she slipped on a pair of flip flops. Wallet, keys, phone, all slipped into the front pockets of her sweatshirt. Finally, she pulled the sweatshirt’s hood over her head. Luckily it was spacious enough to accommodate her tiny horns. With that, she unlocked the door, just like she did to welcome her new skin in, and stepped out.

The first thing she thought was how nice the air felt. Her apartment building’s landings and staircases were open to the outdoors. The suit’s sensors transmitted every sensation it’s circuits could manage from the summer evening haze. A deep breath and a world of smells engulfed her sinuses. If she didn’t have a purpose right now, she may well have just stripped everything and went running in the woods, but she did have one, so restraint became necessary.

Scythia hurried quickly towards the stairs, hands shoved in her pocket, but after only two steps...

“James?” a voice called out from behind her.

Scythia froze.

“James is that you?” The voice called again.

Dread gripped her. It was Mrs. Johnson, the landlady. She had to think quick. What should she say? What COULD she say? Nothing. There was nothing in her head. Completely blank. She couldn’t turn around either. If there was anyone Scythia knew would hate the fact that she was a “Demonhead” it was Mrs. Johnson.

“Uh, sorry ma’am” Scythia said demurely “you got the wrong person.”

Her voice seemed so feeble, not at all confident like before. She realized the only thing keeping Mrs. Johnson from spotting her demonic feet were the stairs.

“Well, I swore you came out of his apartment...” Mrs. Johnson mumbled.

“I did, uh...” Scythia fumbled for words.

“Huh...” Mrs. Johnson said, her tone betraying no suspicion “can’t imagine a boy like him having a girl over”

Scythia felt relieved, then indignant.

“Why?”

“Just that type, you know?” Scythia could hear the creak of Mrs. Johnson leaning against the wall “Always so glum and broody. I tell him: a better attitude, that’s all you need. Manifest positivity! No good dwelling on all that...mopey bullshit.”

Scythia heard this lecture before. It never had the intended effect.

“Yeah...” she said pretending it did “he’s just having a rough time right now.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Scythia wasn’t sure if Mrs. Johnson’s casual tone was because she believed Scythia was a woman or that she wasn’t a tenant, so she had no reason to be mean.

“Well” Mrs. Johnson said with a sigh “with a body like yours he can’t be having that bad a time can he?”

Scythia smirked. Mrs. Johnson didn’t know how right she was.

“When ya see him again tell him his rent is past due, will ya?” Mrs. Johnson continued “I mean...if you see him.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

Mrs. Johnson laughed. Scythia could hear her pull out something from her pocket, followed by the click of a lighter.

“I can already tell you’re too good for him.” One final click, followed by the sizzle of ignited tobacco and the clap of the lighter lid flipping shut “I have a sixth sense for that sort of thing you know. Best you cut your losses now and ditch him, you know, while the good times are still fresh.”

“I think we’re fine” Scythia shot back “Bye Mrs. Johnson.”

Scythia only made it two more steps when...

“When did I tell you my name?”

Scythia froze.

“Uh...James mentioned you.”

“I see...” Mrs. Johnson’s foot tapped on the wooden floorboards “well since you know my name seems right you should tell me yours.”

A name. She just had to say a girls name that WASN’T Scythia.

“Uh...Sarah?”

Mrs. Johnson stopped tapping her foot. The sudden silence vibrated with judgment.

“You’re not a whore are you?”

The ferocity of her question caught Scythia off guard.

“Uh, no, I’m...I’m not.”

“I won’t be having any whores gallivanting around here” Mrs. Johnson immediately snapped back venomously. She drew a long drawl from her cigarette “property value’s shit as it is.”

Scythia didn’t say anything. What could she say? ‘No, I’m not a whore. And by the way, you’re a piece of shit scumbag landlord who doesn’t fix shit, and I hope you lose the apartment complex in the divorce you over-perfumed, clown-faced piece of shit.’

But before she could say this:

“Well, you look out for yourself, all right?” Mrs. Johnson said, her tone flipping completely.

“Uhh I will...” Scythia said, barely holding back her rage “thanks.”

She made her way down the winding stairs, keeping her head low. Every step she worried Mrs. Johnson would blurt out something else or put the pieces together, but Scythia managed to make it to the bottom of the stairs without any further interruptions. Not that the walk across the parking lot felt any less stressful. Even with her thrown together disguise, she was keenly aware of the kind of eyeballs her appearance would draw. Despite her misgivings about being seen – or maybe because of them – she couldn’t deny the simmering tingle of the thrill inside her chest.

Pulling out the key fob from her pocket she pressed the unlock button, signaling a nearby blue Honda Element to do so and flash it’s lights. She glanced back at the apartment, making sure Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t see her driving away with James’ car. It was then that Scythia suddenly became aware of how easily she could see. She swiveled her head left, then right, and realized she could see practically everything. She knew the suit provided night vision, but hadn’t really thought much about it until just then. Yet another reason to smirk.

Approaching the car she noticed one of her neighbors had parked their car especially close to hers. Practically right next to it in fact. A notch and a half open, that was as good as she could manage. As a skinny boy getting in with a bit of contortion was easy, but now…

“Not even two fucking hours and my tits and ass are already causing problems...” she mumbled.

‘Not the worst problem to have,’ she thought.

After failing to squeeze in again and again, she slammed the door shut and walked around the other side, trying her best not to saunter, and slid in through the more accessible passenger side door. Climbing over the armrests and cup holder was it’s own challenge, but eventually Scythia found herself nice and situated with her plump ass firmly in the driver’s seat. Pulling out her phone, she opened Google Maps and carefully entered Club Tartarus into the search bar.

The result was immediate. Estimated arrival: 33 minutes away.

Tapping start, she set the phone down in the passenger seat. A little over a second later, the navigator announced it’s first direction with it’s synthetic voice.

Taking a deep breath, Scythia fished out her car keys, stuck them into the ignition and looked up.

Her eyes went wide, then immediately snapped downwards. There was a man. A man right outside, on the sidewalk right in front of her car.

With one hand she pulled her hood down, but realized her red, clawed hand was now visible. Did he see her? Like, “see” her see her? She didn’t want to look. She couldn’t even remember if he was just standing still or even facing her.

After ten seconds, she took a sheepish glance up. No sign of the man. Maybe he was just walking by. Or maybe she was seeing things.

Either way, not wanting to risk another encounter, she quickly slid the key into the ignition, turned it, removed the emergency break, then put the car in reverse.

‘This is a bad idea’ a part of her thought. The other, much stronger part of her quaked at the idea of going back looking like she did. The prospect of risking another unwanted encounter was enough to push her through the motions of pulling out of her spot and carefully guiding her vehicle to the entrance to the parking lot and out onto the main road.

Scythia’s mind swirled. A million emotions coursed through her, each one harder to pin down than the last. A lot of questions, too. Hopefully she would find the answer to at least some them on the long, half hour drive.