Changing Parts

by TinySexyGirl

This is a continuation to TSG's "Still Life", which can be read by clicking here.

I was two days in a window, and then three months in a box.

It’s amazing how you outlook on life changes when you’re just a collection of parts in a cardboard container.

It’d started a few months before with my girlfriend, Candi. She’d found some magic coin, or so she told me, and made a wish so that she could turn me into a mannequin whenever she wanted. I thought it was crap, but I was wrong; the magic worked.

So I could be turned into a mannequin. Only Candi fucked up the wish and it seemed that anyone—myself likely included—could change me, and I didn’t even have to be within earshot. In fact, my second transformation into a lump of human plastic may have happened because somewhere in the world two people managed to put together the two words that would change me.

Anyway, I ended up on a window . . . but I was changed back into human by Ronnie, a girl who’d once discovered me in a dressing room at Frederick’s frozen before sticking me on display. She’d found me again—well, I sorta found her first, but then I changed and she dressed me and put me in another window . . ..

And then she figured out I was the girl from Frederick’s. Long story short, she went to where I lived and discovered who I was and my little secret. (Candi was off in Vegas getting her freak satisfied, so no need to worry about getting caught.) She came into the store after hours and changed me back to human and we talked. She was interested in my position—I think that’s the word. Candi was just horny over me, and Ronnie said she read Candi’s journal and determined that all my girlfriend just wanted to use me to rub her kink out. Something I’d already figured out.

Ronnie said she wasn’t like that. Ronnie wanted to know what it was like to be me. Ronnie more or less said she wanted to be like me, which didn’t make a fuckin’ bit of sense, but then Candi wanted a girl she could change into a mannequin, so who was I to know what people really wanted?

And then she changed me into a display dummy again.

I was put back in the window looking sexy and hell, and there I stayed, sexually excited and cuming most of the night. I didn’t really feel time pass in the window—not until the mall walkers showed up and then it was like I was back on "human" time, feeling the passage as eyes sometimes turned on me while I stood stiffly in the window.

Now, this time and the last I’d been in a window mostly at night. Sure, I’d started out yesterday in the afternoon stuck in my pose, feeling time drag a little as I was unable to do anything but look pretty. And orgasm, don’t forget that. The only thing about what had happened to me that was any good was that Candi had made me constantly excited when frozen. She probably did that because she knew I’d come out of my pose ready to fuck her silly—something I did the few times she keep me hard a whole weekend. So when the store finally opened and the mall filled up, I wasn’t completely bored outta my mind. I was feeling about as good as a girl could feel.

Only I couldn’t touch myself or moan or writhe on the ground or any of that good shit. Being a plastic person has its limitations.

I just watched people between going "Ummmmm" in my head. It was a lot of fun. Because of the way I looked—Ronnie had dressed me very sharply and put a pink wig on my head—I caught the attention of a lot of people. Women looked, yeah. Most had that "I wish I could wear something like that" look on their face. You knew they were thinking that they wished they were 10 years younger or 30 pounds lighter, something along those lines. Guys looked. Why not? I was hot, even if I was plastic. I figured more than a couple of guys were wondering what I'd be like if I were real. Shit. If they only knew the magic words . . ..

And then there were the girls. I really shouldn’t say girls, since I’m 26 and that in theory puts me in the same ballpark. But anyone 14 to 29 I called "girls". It’s just a habit. Fuck me, okay?

Anyway . . . these girls would just come up and stare at me. A lot examined the outfit I wore, thinking about how it’d look on them. But a few others were looking at me. I can’t explain how I knew this, but I did. I tried to figure out if they were wondering what I’d be like real—or what it would be like being frozen? I couldn’t say; I didn’t know. There weren’t a lot of these girls, but it was enough that I noticed.

There was this black chick who gazed upon me, licking her lips. Was she thinking, I’d really love being on display all the time? The slightly overweight redhead who actually pinched a nipple. Was I would be beautiful forever running through her head?

And the two Latino girls . . . first they stared at me, giggling, pushing into each other while their eyes ran all over my body. Then they came into the store and stood behind me. They talked about the outfit I had on, but at one point one of them said, "¿El maniquí bonito, usted no piensa?" and the other one placed her hand on my leg and said, "Yo la podría ser para siempre," as she slid her hand up under my skirt and rubbed my ass. My Spanish was a little rusty, but I got the impression that the girls dug me, one a lot more than the other.

I didn’t see Ronnie that day, but I hear her in the store. I didn’t know if she was working or not, but I was in such rapture that I didn’t much care. I admit that being on display like this was a huge turn on. I would have loved to have spoken to some of the people who came near me, sorta doing the Kim Cattrall thing on them. Of course she only did that for one person.

Was Ronnie going to be my person?

The night came and went. Sometime during the next day—it felt like midday, but I didn’t really know—Ronnie came and started breaking me down. "Just relax, honey," she whispered to me. "I’m gonna take care of you." She undressed me and separated me into my components, and placed me in a box, then wheeled me to the storage room.

And there I sat.

I didn’t know how long I was there. I was in darkness, as Ronnie had closed the box. It also sounded like she’d sealed it shut with tape, but again, couldn’t see, couldn’t tell. I did eventually feel myself moving, though. Through a door, down a hall, then an elevator, then another hall, door . . . then outside. I thought I was being put into a car, then nothing for a while except the sounds of people and automobiles.

Then after a period of silence someone got into the car and we were off. We drove for a while, then stopped. I was pulled out of the car. We went through a door (had to be "we" since I sure as hell wasn’t doing the moving), up stairs . . . I heard keys, another door—

And that was it for a long time.

I was pretty sure Ronnie had brought me home, but she didn’t uncrate me. I heard her speak once in a while, but that was it.

I just languished in the darkness.


Finally the day came that Ronnie pulled me out of the box. She put me together lying down on her bed. Once she had me together she gazed upon my form for a few minutes, lightly touching me here and there. Then she uttered the magic words:

"Nora, real."

I about fuckin’ died. I came so hard I felt myself spray the comforter. The room stunk of my pussy. My hands instinctively touched my breasts, feeling my new, larger hardened nipples. I arched my back. "Fuck, Ronnie!" I cried. "What the fuck took you so long?"

She sat on the edge of the bed. The lightly caressed my thigh. "Feel better?"

"I felt good before . . ." I sighed. "Damn, if a few days as plastic feels that good—"

Ronnie giggled. "A few days?"

"That’s what it felt like."

"You have no idea."

She stood. I propped myself up on my elbows. I noticed that I had very long, very straight, very black hair. "How long was I in the box?"

"Four months."

I felt like I’d been slapped. "You’re shittin’!"


I slowly got to my feet. My body felt different. I remember Ronnie telling me that she’d swapped out some of my parts, so my breasts and butt were a little bigger. My center of gravity was off a bit due to my longer legs. "Four months? Why so long?"

Ronnie seemed a little embarrassed. "I didn’t want Candi to change you back."

Candi. I’d really forgotten about her. I didn’t do a lot of thinking while I was boxed up, but most of the thinking I did revolved around Ronnie and not Candi. "Shit, she should be back by now," I mumbled. "How did you know I wouldn’t change back when I was all . . . apart like that?"

"I tried making you real again while you were like that," Ronnie said. "I just needed to see if you would—" She shrugged. "Come back to alive."

The thought of becoming real again while just a pile of parts . . . some of me didn’t want to think about it, but something inside me thought it would have been wild as hell. I wonder how long I would have lived? "Did you think I’d leave and go back to her if I had returned to life?" I asked.

"I don’t know." She leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed. "I guess. Mostly I figured if she tried changing you and you didn’t come back, she’d just forget about you."

I knew Candi. She might have done just that. Her attention span wasn’t the greatest in the world, and if she figured her cursed sex doll wasn’t going to come running home after getting switched back, Candi had probably moved on to another sexual conquest. Maybe. I couldn’t say. For all I knew she was home right now crying her eyes out. Yeah, sure.

I crossed my legs. "So, Ronnie, where we going with this?"

"Where do you want it to go?" she shot right back.

That was a good question. A better one was: did I want it to go anywhere? "Well, considering I hardly know you—"

"True." She was smiling a little. "Other than our little talk a while back, you know nothing about me."


"Other than I’m very interested in you."

"Interested in me?" I raised an eyebrow. "Or interested in what I can become?"

"Both." Ronnie once more sat next to me. She keeps her hands folded in her lap, as if she were afraid to be intimate. "I’m attracted to you, probably for all the wrong reasons—"

"Do tell."

And she did. Ronnie started telling me about her mannequin fetish; about how she’d "always" had this fantasy about being turning into a living mannequin and being frozen and unable to more and put on display; how she’d have someone who’d love to take her apart and dress her and, in a way, love her for what she was. How she’d fantasized about finding a woman who was capable of being a living mannequin as well . . . and loving her the way Ronnie would want to be loved were she in that position.

"I don’t want a toy," she said, putting her arms around my shoulders. "I want someone I can love. Someone I can understand—"

"Someone you can make stiff and take apart and dress once in a while," I added. I smiled when I spoke, to show Ronnie I wasn’t being a hard-ass about everything. What she’d said kinda touched me. I knew she’d been right about Candi: all the girl wanted was something that she could have fun with. Ronnie . . . well, she might want fun, but I understood that she wanted it in a way that I would enjoy things as well. I wasn’t going to be just an object to her.

"I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of the mystique," Ronny said. "I love that you can do that." She snuggled up to me, for the first time getting romantic. "And I’d love to be able to do the same for you."

"I don’t want you to be like me," I told her, and I meant it. "It’s not a curse you want."

"But I do." She kissed my cheek softly, and I liked how it felt. "I want it badly. All I have to do is find this coin—"

I told Ronnie in my arms. "You’re crazy, you know that?"

She nodded. "You don’t know how crazy, baby."

True to her word, Ronnie was a very good lover, and very skillful. She pushed all the right buttons, and when it came to making me feel like Queen of the World, she just rocked it perfectly.

When we were making love she didn’t turn me, either. I stayed "normal", although I knew that word didn’t apply to me anymore. But you know what I mean: I stayed human. Ronnie made love to me, not to the plastic doll with removable parts I could become with just a phrase.

It was like that for a couple of months. We were developing a relationship, and we let it grow in a way that was beneficial for us both. Like she’d told me, she didn’t want a toy, she wanted a lover, and that’s what she was getting. Even as good as Candi had been, she was never this good. Probably because Candi just wanted to fuck hard and be done. Ronnie wanted to love. Therein lay the difference.

Little was said of my special ability. About three weeks after I started living with Ronnie we were having breakfast when all of a sudden I froze. Somewhere the phase had been spoken. Ronnie looked at me for just a moment, realized what had happened, and said "Nora, live," and I was right back to doing what I’d been doing. I was surprised she hadn’t done something to me first, but no, she changed me right back. It happened again about five days later and Ronnie did the same thing.

When I asked her about it, about what she did, she said, "When you change I want it to be because you and I want it to happen." Made sense. She was letting me have a hand in my fate.

We didn’t have a lot of money. I had some cash in my old account (about four grand), and Ronnie had a few bucks stashed away, but that was it. Ronnie’s place was nice: nothing grand, but we weren’t living in squalor. I needed to get a job, but there was also the possibility that I’d change over if I was out in public, and without Ronnie about to help set things right that could present problems.

Fortunately Ronnie came up with an idea. She’d changed jobs not long before she pulled me out of the box, and she was starting to get some notice as a window dresser at one of the finer department stores downtown. Ronnie told them where she worked that she could use an assistant, and she knew just the girl . . . and like that, I was working again. I had pretty much the same hours as Ronnie, and if something should happen to me Ronnie was there to fix it right.

And so it went that we were both working, both making not great money, but enough that we could keep the power on, the phones paid for, and us both in nice clothes.

Ronnie liked dressing me. Even when I wasn’t plastic she loved taking my clothes off and laying out what she wanted me to wear and then dressing me. She had a great sense of style, and there were only a couple of times when she put me in something that I didn’t care for what I was wearing. I could tell she liked doing it as well. I could tell she really wanted me to be a mannequin, that she really wanted to be doing this while I was standing in a window.

The fucked up thing was, I was starting to want it as well.

So, three months after I started working as an assistant window dresser, Ronnie asked, "Would you like to make some extra money?", I knew exactly what she was going to say.

The deal was very simple: Ronnie would be renting out "realistic, highly poseable" mannequins on a weekend-by-weekend basis. The deal was she could put them in any position the customer would like and the customer would have them for a Saturday and Sunday. And they would be very life-like: so much so that one could swear they were a real person.

Here was the deal: a local sporting goods company was looking to cash in on the Maria Sharapova vibe that had popped up since she won Wimbledon the year before. Basically they were looking for a hot-looking blond mannequin dressed in sport’s wear, looking like it was about to smash a serve back over the net. And if she could look a lot like Maria, so much the better.

So, steps needed to make a Sharapova look-alike:

One, get pictures. Plenty on the Internet. Check.

Two, figure out how to style the body. Sharapova is 6’ 2"; I’m 5’ 5". So . . . longer legs, longer torso, longer arms, firm body, small breasts. Ronnie knew where she could get the parts. It took her two days to bring them home and assemble them. When she was done she had a body that was just an inch under the right height.

Three, get my head on that body. Ronnie already knew she could swap parts, and we both figured that if my head was on another body, that body would probably come alive. Probably. There was only one way to find out . . . Ronnie froze me, popped my head off, popped the fake Maria’s head off, switched heads, took a deep breath, and tried bringing me back to life.

I gasped as I felt the "change" sweep over me. I was so damn big! "Oh, Ronnie," I purred. "I’m . . . tall!"

Ronnie grinned. "You certainly are . . .."

Four, try out the body before putting it in the window. Big check there.

Five, getting the outfit I was going to wear. Ronnie brought it home and "modeled" it on me. It was a bit tight, but it wasn’t like I was going to be doing anything in it.

Six, put on makeup prior to getting froze. We’d realized that any makeup I had on became permanent whenever I was changed to plastic. Ronnie figured that the more we brought out my features by highlighting them, the more impressive I’d look as a mannequin. We’d tried it once before in my "old" body (which now looked just like any other sorta fake plastic girl) and while I was frozen Ronnie took a couple of pictures to show me what I looked like. It was stunning, really.

So, I dressed and let Ronnie "get me ready" by putting on my face. I looked like I was ready for a photo shoot when she finished. She told me I looked good enough to eat.

Seven, get into my pose. She had me pretend I was playing tennis, whipping the racket I was going to use back and forth. She was working me the way a photographer would, waiting for the right moment to say—

"Nora, hard."

I stiffened up. I felt the stand firmly in my crotch where my vagina would have been. It felt like a huge dildo stuck up inside me. Ronnie took my picture, downloaded it, and then showed it to me. I was standing there with my feet apart, my body semi-crouched, my arm back and set up for a wicked forehand smash. I looked like a frozen person rather than a hunk of plastic. I came when I saw myself. "You’re beautiful," Ronnie whispered as she started disassembling me.

Eight, set me up. I thought I was going to be in a window, but I was wrong. The sporting goods store was large, and I was going to be put on display on the floor near the tennis equipment. Ronnie started setting me up as the place was closing. A couple of the people who worked there watched as she put me together, getting me ready. I heard a couple of them remark about how incredibly alive I looked. "Yeah, I have a way of making them look real," Ronnie told one girl who was visibly gushing as she told Ronnie how incredibly real I seemed.

And finally Nine: Ronnie finished up, got my wig on me right, looked around to see if anyone was looking. "Have fun, honey," she told me. "See you Sunday night." And she gave me a kiss on the lips that keep me going for the rest of the night.

I was a hit. Really. People looked at me, and I liked it when they looked. I had so many people trying to figure out if I was real or if I was fake, or if I was just panted up nice, or whatever the hell they might have been thinking. Once people saw me it seemed like they’d circle on back to where I was to see me again. People touched me even though there was a sign asking people not to. I had a couple of people snap a picture with me. I felt like most everyone liked me.

Late Saturday night the girl who’d went on about me with Ronnie stopped by a couple of times before the store closed. She did a lot of looking, and I could sense what was going on in her mind: God, you’d be so hot if you were real. Or maybe she just wanted to fuck me as I was. I couldn’t ask her, that was for sure. I didn’t know if she was sure, either.

She walked over and touched my leg, just below the hem of my skirt. "You’re so perfect," she whispered. She caressed me lightly, but nothing overtly sexual. "Ah, if you were only real." With that she turned and walked out. I knew I’d be in her thoughts that evening.

The next morning she came in with a big smile. "Enjoy yourself last night?" she asked me. "I know I did." She winked and then split. I didn’t see her the rest of the day. And the idea that I’d somehow turned her on did a hell of a job turning me on. It was a good thing I was plastic, ‘cause I’d have been smelling up the place otherwise.

Ronnie came for me just as the place was closing for the evening. She slowly took me apart, returned the clothing and equipment to the store, then accepted an envelope before leaving. She put my boxes (I was in three different boxes) and took me home. Once there she slipped a pair of boots on my legs (my feet were sort of flat, but they were able to fit in okay) before putting me together. She then brought me back to life. "How you feeling?" she asked.

"Lightheaded," I moaned. "That was . . . I mean, it was really fun!" And I wasn’t bullshitting. I enjoyed it immensely.

"You were a big hit." Ronnie slid up close to me and put her arms around my waist. Something felt funny, but I didn’t know what. I was too engrossed in looking down on my lovely girlfriend. "He asked if I had any more like you for future displays."

"You probably said yes."

"Only if you want to do it." She grinned broadly.

"I didn’t mind it . . . how much did we make?"


I was a little shocked by this. A couple of hundred for a weekend? Damn. "That’s pretty good cash."

"Better than dressing windows, ain’t it?"

"You know it." I tried to move closer to Ronnie. "Tried" was the operative word, ‘cause when I stepped foreword, it felt like I stepped back. "What the fuck?"

Ronnie moved closer to me instead. She brought her hands around to her front. "I should tell you, honey—" she said as she started rubbing me.

And that’s when I knew something was screwed up, ‘cause she should have been rubbing my crotch, but it felt like she was rubbing my ass. I leaned back and looked down—

She was rubbing my ass.

"Ronnie," I gasped. "It’s my . . .."

"Did I mentioned I put your torso on backwards?" Ronnie faked looking shocked. "Oops!"

After a few hours turned ‘round (is it really doggy style if I’m able to prop myself up on my elbows and watch Ronnie licking my ass?), I was put right. Meaning my torso was turned around the right way. Ronnie didn’t put my head back on my old body, not just yet. Neither of us needed to be into work until 6 PM tomorrow because we were going to prep three windows, and that would require some after hours work. So Ronnie asked me if I wouldn’t mind hanging out in my "Sharapova Bod" for most of the day before going into work.

"I don’t have anything to wear," I told her.

"I picked up a few things that would fit when I started putting the parts together." She had that look in her eye, the one that told me she’d been planing this. I shrugged. Why not go with the flow and enjoy?

So in the morning Ronnie "hardened" me, took me apart, dressed me in light golden dress with a short hem and some strappy sandals, then turned me back real and examined her handy work before kissing me. That was the first time she’d done that. I found I liked it a whole hell of a lot.

We spent the day wandering about, doing a lot of window shopping, grabbing a bite. Nothing big, just enjoying our time together. And getting a lot of attention. Being almost six and a half feet tall in heels makes a girl stand out in a crowd, and I drew my fair share of stares. Ronnie didn’t mind that I was a foot taller than her. She let me know that having a tall girlfriend (even if she was in a temporary body) was a lot of fun. The fact she was rubbing my ass every chance she got was a big clue.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look?" she told me as we sat in a local coffee shop having a latte.

"Just about every chance you get." I crossed my legs for about the millionth time. I really loved having them this long, having this toned and perfect body.

"I’d love for you to keep that body."

"Well, we can keep it . . . I just can’t wear it all the time."

Ronnie nodded, seeing the logic. "Yeah, true. We could keep it boxed up. After all, someone might want to display you again."

"Someone might," I agreed, grinning.

Ronnie waited a few moments before asking, "You liked it, didn’t you?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I didn’t think I would, but . . . I did." I felt a tinge of excitement when I told Ronnie, "I liked people looking at me, thinking I was real—"

"You are."

"I mean a real person."

"You are."

"You know what I mean."

"The idea that you’re not what you seem," Ronnie said, nodding.


"Being all still and excited, and having people wonder if that’s how you actually feel, if you’re enjoying before frozen stiff and unable to move and yet aware of all that’s going on around you."

I laughed. "You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, haven’t you?"

"Oh, yeah." She grinned over her coffee. "I told you I’d love to be like you. Able to change like that."

"Under the command of others."

"Well, yeah." She put her cup down. "Wouldn’t do to get caught in a window somewhere and not get out."

I examined Ronnie’s expression. "I think you’d like that, though. Being stuck like that and knowing that no one else knows the mannequin they’re working on is really a person turned to plastic."

She squirmed in her chair. "You know me too well, Nora."

I flipped my hair out of my face. "Once you’ve had a girl put you together a new body, you learn a lot about them." We both giggled loudly at my in joke, feeling as if everything was going so well . . ..

Three windows took time, and by the time we were nearly done with the last window it was pushing 11 PM. We probably would have been done a little sooner, but Ronnie was playing grab-ass for part of the evening. I think it was all the plastic females around us that was getting her aroused, and the thought that I could join them but with a phrase.

I was in the backroom cleaning up. Ronnie had been taking care of the window, so I wasn’t really following what she was doing. I was just about done getting the back room fixed up when I froze. Damn it. Ronnie was playing with me. I would have thought she’d wait until we were home, but I guess maybe she wanted to stick me in the window and look at me, then come back in the morning.

I heard her walk up behind me. "What is this?" she asked. She knew what it was; she was saying it playfully for my sake. She popped my head off and headed to another part of the backroom with it. She set me down on a table; I heard a stool scrap the floor as Ronnie sat. I was likely on the workbench, where we touch up some of the mannequins from time to time.

"You’re gonna be so pretty," Ronnie hummed as she began laying things out. I could only look up into her face. I was a little worried that she was going to do something crazy, but once I felt the putty going on my face I had a pretty good idea what she had planed. "Talk about plastic surgery," she whispered as she blew on my face. I could only sense what it was she was doing. The truth was I didn’t feel a thing.

She played with my eyes a bit—well, more than played. I was sure she was painting them. It was as I suspected: she wanted to see if changes she did to my mannequin form carried over to my real form, just as makeup to my real body carried over to my mannequin self.

After what seemed like an hour she got up from and walked to another part of the backroom. She put my head on a body—one I was pretty certain wasn’t the same as what I was wearing when I came to work. "Nora, real."

The moment I turned back I knew my body was completely different. I was tall again—maybe not six-two, but I feel a lot taller than five-four. Not to mention I was in very high heeled sandals, maybe platforms . . . My legs were long but felt nice and firm of muscle. My torso feels very slim, which in turn made my large breasts seem larger. But my hips and ass . . . if the way the dress I had on was any indication, they’d gotten big. Probably big enough to make me look like a pear.

"What did you do to me now, Ronnie?" I asked. I wasn’t pissed. Just curious.

"Just look." She pointed towards the large mirror in the corner of the room.

I slinked over there—and "slink" was the word. I felt my hips broadly swaying as I walked. My large, round breasts lightly bounced on my small torso. The black dress I was wearing nicely showed off my long, lean legs, my calves enhanced by the high-heeled espadrille sandals I wore. My hips were also made incredible by how the dress clung to them. I had hips that should have been worn on a mother of eight. I turned in profile; my ass stuck out like someone had tapped a watermelon over my existing butt.

My face was very different. Ronnie had built up my lips with plaster, and when I’d "turned live" the enhancement became part of my real face. I didn’t just have bee-stung lips: I had an oversized, full-on "trout pout" that seemed incredibly sexy. My eyes had also changed from their normal light blue to a striking azure, which matched well with the huge brownish-red mop of long, curly hair flowing past my shoulders.

But my skin . . . I don’t know how she did it, but Ronnie somehow managed to darken my skin color. Whereas before I was a fair blond, I was now a light mocha, maybe Latino, maybe Negro. I couldn’t say, but I certainly looked exotic.

I put my hand on my amble hips and cocked them to one side. "You like this kinda girl, huh?" I couldn’t take my eyes off myself.

"I like any kind of girl," Ronnie said kind of breathlessly, "as long as it’s you."

I turned towards her. "I am a mix and match sort of babe." I slapped my butt. "Think you got this big enough?"

Ronnie laughed. "Perfect for a Latino honey."

"I like." I shifted around while looking over my shoulder, checking out my backside. People were going to get a load of my swishing ass when they walked behind me. "I’m to where I don’t mind getting a make over like this."

"Yeah." She had a wistful look in her eye. I knew what she was thinking, and what she was wanting.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Hey, I really do wish what happens to me could happen to you—only using your name for your change, that is."

She blushed. It was the first time I saw Ronnie do that. "Thanks. I know you do."

Just playing around, I quickly said, "Ronnie, hard!"

She laughed. "That would work if Ronnie was my real name," she said. "If you wanted to change me you’d have to say, ‘Rebecca, hard’—"

And Ronnie instantly turned into a mannequin.

I almost shit. There she was, as life-like as she could be, but obviously plastic. I gave her head a little knock. "Ronnie?" I said quietly. She was a mannequin, for sure. But how? I had . . ..

And it was then that I felt something in rubbing against the toes of my right foot. Like I was standing on something warm that I hadn’t noticed before. I sat down and removed my shoe and shook out whatever the hell it was in there.

A coin clattered to the floor. It was the same goddamn coin that Candi had used to transform me!

"Holy shit!" I picked it up. Yeah, there was no mistaking it. It was the same coin. I picked it up. It felt a little warm to the touch, which was probably why I’d felt it in the first place. I’d had it on me—well, I was touching it, actually, and when I wished that Ronnie have the same thing happen to her as happens to me, the wish must have come true.

"Shit! I could have—" Done a lot with that. Wished myself out of my condition. Wished for a lot of money. Anything. I tried it. "I wish I was worth a billion dollars, and there was $10,000 cash in my purse." I put the coin down, went to my locker and looked in my purse. Nothing. Same shit. Either I couldn’t get everything I’d want—like a billion dollars—or you only got one wish per person.

I turned to get the coin, and it was gone. It’d vanished. I’d only had a back turned about a minute—maybe three minutes had gone by since I’d turn Ronnie into plastic—but the coin was gone. Just like it had done with Candi. One wish is all you get per use, I thought, filing away the memory in case I ever came across that coin again.

I turned my attention back towards Ronnie.

I looked her over, then gave her another kiss on the cheek. "I know you can hear me," I told her. "I hope this is everything you’ve ever wanted it to be."

Just then I realized: no, it’s not.

I popped her head off and started breaking her down. "I think you might like what I have in mind, honey," I purred. Inside her head, I knew she was probably screaming, Yes, yes! Do it, Nora!

I got her on a cart and headed out towards the Junior Miss department. We were going to set this one up in a couple of days—after our days off—but I thought now would be as good a time as any to get the mannequin in place . . ..

An hour later I had Ronnie in place. I’d placed her up on a pedestal display, so she stood about a foot and a half off the ground. I’d dressed her in some stylish lace up ankle boots and knee high stockings, a short leather skirt, and a gray knit top. I threw a short leather jacket on her, placed a platinum blond wig on her head and topped that with a black beret. I stepped back to admire her, then moved in and lifted her skirt. I didn’t bother putting any panties on her; why would a mannequin need them? I started licking her smooth, pink crotch, getting her and me all wet in the process. I knew this would be driving her nuts. Hell, it was driving me nuts!

I quit after five minutes. "Was it good for you?" I asked. "I know it was." I waved as I walked away. "See ya in a couple of days, honey."

I walked through the silent store (it was nearly 12:30 AM) and headed for the back room where I’d been changed, and where I’d changed Ronnie. Yeah, a hot Latino babe with her now-blond girlfriend, both who could be changed on the whim of the other. It had a certain hotness to it, but we had to be careful. Since we could both be turned into mannequins, it wouldn’t do to have both of us on display at the same—

Suddenly, in the work area around the other mannequins, I froze.

Ah, fuck! Somewhere, somehow the phrase "Nora, hard" had been spoken. And I was stuck, frozen as solid as my girlfriend out there on display on the floor . . ..

The next morning when people came into work they found me right where I’d been frozen. A couple of the girls remarked that Ronnie and I must have left "me" out, and didn’t we do fantastic work? You could almost swear this mannequin was a real person . . ..

Ronnie obviously didn’t come out of her condition, otherwise she’d have come looking for me. I would have sighed if possible. I mean, who’d have thought that we’d both be stuck like this? Certainly not me.

I stayed where I was until nightfall. I knew it was nightfall when the dresser came for me, since the lights were on in the store and the customers were gone. I was broken down and moved to the main floor, then reassembled and placed on a pedestal. Just like I’d done with Ronnie. I was going to be the main display in Ladies Intimates, and I’d been dressed in stockings and garters and a nice thong and a merry widow, with a sheer black peek-a-boo robe. They’d also slipped a pair of black pumps on my feet, which I thought was incredibly sexy. I could see my reflection in a mirror just across the aisle, and that, combined with the pole sticking up my butt, was really getting me hot.

And then the lights went out and I was left alone in my splendor and exhilaration.

Both Ronnie and I were suppose to have a couple of days off. One day was already gone. Tomorrow we weren’t suppose to show up, but the day after we were supposed to come in and start working on some other displays. Of course if we didn’t show up, and our stuff was found in our lockers, would someone report us missing?

I knew no one would know me, but would anyone recognize Ronnie in the Junior Miss department? Probably not. It’s funny how you don’t really pay attention to the mannequins unless you really pay attention to them—

I relaxed. Maybe someone would say the phrase that would set either of us free.

Maybe we’d get lucky.

Maybe . . ..


To be Continued... in Mistaken Identities

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