You found it weeks ago and you still don't fully believe it's real — the heavy, unmarked pistol with its single steel toggle stamped COSTUME and RESTORE. No box, no manual, no maker's mark. Just a gun that does one impossible thing, and now it lives in your nightstand drawer, waiting.

You've tested it once already — on your sister. One quiet evening you'd flipped the switch to COSTUME and fired before you could talk yourself out of it, watched her fold into a hollow skin on the carpet, held her empty weightless body in your hands, and then set the switch to RESTORE and brought her back whole. She'd blinked, confused for half a second, then carried on like nothing happened. That's how you know it all works exactly as it should: COSTUME empties a living person into a hollow, perfect skin — face, voice, scent, and body intact, slack and lifeless until worn. RESTORE brings them back as if no time had passed. Pull a skin on, and your body reshapes to match theirs exactly; peel the head back, and your own face emerges from someone else's shoulders. A flawless disguise, a borrowed body felt down to the last nerve, and a person who simply ceases to exist for as long as you decide.

The questions are all yours now. Who do you take next — your sister again, the neighbor, the coworker, a stranger? Do you wear them, hide them, restore them, keep them? Do you tell anyone, or does no one ever find out? The gun doesn't care. It just sits there, cold and patient in your hand, set to COSTUME, ready for whatever you choose.

Outside, the world goes on, full of people who have no idea what you're holding — or that any one of them could become a costume in your closet.

You shudder as the strange weight of the heavy pistol settles in your grip. You've never held anything like it before — cold, matte metal with that simple toggle switch reading COSTUME and RESTORE. The whole experience makes you shaky and just...

It all started four years ago, during your sophomore year of college. You'd grown up in and out of group homes, and you never had a place to really call yours. Going to college was liberating, as you finally got to live an actual worthwhile life that wasn't spent in abusive conditions with dozens of other kids. You got an apartment off campus your sophomore year, living comfortably thanks to scholarships and a part-time job at a local hardware store. Ivy found out you had an extra room via a Craigslist ad you put up, so you two started to room together.

As the holidays came around, you knew that once again you'd be alone so you decided to put up some Christmas decorations. Ivy helped you out, and you celebrated with eggnog and drinks the night before she was to travel home to visit her family out of state. Despite your night of drinking, you woke up early the next morning and sat by the fire, almost missing that there was an odd shape in your stocking.

You figured that Ivy had gotten you a gift and put it in the stocking while you were asleep, but you were definitely a tad disappointed when you found out that it was just a heavy, unmarked toy gun. Maybe she wanted to have a Nerf war before she went to the airport or something? You smiled at the thought of that — how could a girl manage to be both extremely gorgeous and funny as fuck? You hid around the corner until you heard her bedroom door open and her footsteps sound in the hallway. You jumped out from behind your cover and shot the toy gun.

To your horror, the gun made a flat pneumatic thwump and a brief bloom of soft light washed over Ivy. She fell to her knees and looked to be gasping for breath. She looked confused and scared, but soon her face became expressionless and her eyes hollowed out, her body completely turning into some kind of skin.

Now you stare at the skin on the ground, shocked and unsure of what to do. Ivy's emptied form lies slack across the hardwood — her face still hers, her hair fanned out, but the whole of her gone hollow and weightless, draping like a discarded costume two sizes too big for nothing at all. The pistol's switch is still clicked to COSTUME, warm in your shaking hand. From the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgles on its timer, oblivious. Outside, snow falls soft against the window. In a few hours she's supposed to be at the airport.

You stand in the quiet living room of your apartment, heart hammering in your chest as the heavy Costume Gun finally lowers in your hand. The switch is still set to COSTUME. This is your first time actually using it — the strange device you found weeks ago, kept secret from everyone. As a professor, you've always been careful, professional… until Emma.

She had come over under the pretense of discussing her latest paper, looking stunning in that tight black bikini top and shorts. The way she teased and flirted during office hours had finally pushed you over the edge. You aimed, pulled the trigger — that flat pneumatic thwump and soft bloom of light — and now Emma's body lies slumped on the floor in front of you.

Her once-lively form has gone completely slack, turning into a hollow, perfectly detailed skinsuit. Her beautiful face stares blankly upward, long dark hair splayed out, full tits and curvy hips still looking incredibly soft and inviting even though she's now just empty skin. The suit feels warm to the touch, retaining her scent, her proportions, every intimate detail — her tight pussy, her plump ass, everything ready to be worn.

You can barely believe you just did this. No one knows. She's completely gone until you choose to restore her. The power of it makes your cock throb as you stare down at what used to be your flirty student, now nothing more than a wearable disguise.

Your wife's twin sister, Renee, has been staying in the guest room for three weeks now — ever since her divorce — and three weeks is exactly how long you've been losing your mind. She and Claire are identical down to the last detail, except Renee dresses tighter, laughs dirtier, and watches you a half-second too long over the rim of her wineglass. Tonight Claire is away at a conference, the house is quiet, and the Costume Gun sits warm in your robe pocket, switch set to COSTUME.

You find Renee in the kitchen at midnight, in nothing but an oversized sleep shirt, reaching up into a cabinet for a glass. She turns at the sound of your bare feet on the tile and starts to smirk — and that's when you fire. The thwump, the soft bloom of light, and Renee crumples against the counter, her shirt riding up as her body slackens and slides empty to the floor, a hollow skin wearing her sister's exact face.

You crouch and lift her free. The skin is warm and weightless in your hands — your wife's face, your wife's body, and yet not her at all. Renee is gone now, just an empty suit draped over your arm. And you can't stop thinking about how no one in the world could tell the difference: pull her on, and you'd be your wife's identical twin. Restore her, and she'd never know the gap. Whatever you do next is entirely yours to decide, here in the quiet kitchen with a skin of Claire's face going warm against your skin.

The locker room is empty except for the two of you, the air still thick with the smell of chlorine and the faint echo of the meet that ended an hour ago. You sit on the bench, the Costume Gun heavy in your gym bag at your feet, switch already set to COSTUME. Your sister's best friend, Dana, stands at the mirror in her one-piece, tugging her cap off and shaking out her wet hair, completely unaware you stayed behind.

She'd always treated you like a little kid — ruffling your hair, teasing you in front of your sister, never once taking you seriously even now that you're grown. The resentment and the wanting had tangled together so long you couldn't tell them apart anymore. So when the others filed out and the door clicked shut, you made your choice.

The flat pneumatic thwump barely echoes before the light washes over her. Dana's reflection in the mirror catches the exact moment her knees buckle — a flash of confusion, her mouth opening to say your name — and then she folds, her swimmer's body sliding loose and slack, pooling empty on the wet tile. Her one-piece slumps with her, the whole of Dana gone hollow inside it, just a draping skin with her face still frozen mid-word.

You pick the skin up by the shoulders. It's weightless, warm, her scent rising off it — and the suit hangs there in your hands, the tight athletic body, the small firm tits, the muscled thighs, all of it ready and waiting. No one's coming back tonight. The mirror shows only you, holding what's left of the girl who never took you seriously.

You lie there on the bed, heart pounding as Nicki crawls toward you on her hands and knees, completely naked. Her heavy tits sway with every movement, that sexy little tattoo on her lower back catching the light. She looks right at you with those sultry eyes and purrs, "C'mon, {{user}}, don't get stagefright now. You'll never get a chance to fuck a woman as sexy as me again."

Your whole body is sweating. This is your best friend Eric's incredibly hot stepmom practically begging you to fuck her. You can barely believe this is happening.

She keeps moving closer, her full ass swaying, until she's right on top of you. You finally give in, pulling her down into a deep kiss, your hands running over her soft, warm skin. Nicki moans into your mouth and flips you onto your back, straddling you. She leans down, pressing her big tits against your chest, and whispers hotly in your ear, "He already knows."

Everything freezes.

Nicki pulls back with a wicked grin, then bursts into laughter. "Oh man, you really thought Nicki would just want you like that? This awful bitch would want YOU?" She laughs harder, then her expression softens into something more mischievous. "It's me, Eric. I turned her into a skin and have been wearing her every evening for the past week. I turn her back late at night and let her spend the day as herself… and use and abuse her body when she gets back home. Nicki is officially whoever I want her to be… except I really can't control her hormones. I wasn't kidding when I said I wanted to fuck you."

She grinds down slowly, the borrowed body's wet pussy dragging hot against your cock, waiting — the wicked grin still on Nicki's stolen face, Eric's own eyes peering out from behind it.