This was meant to be a cute caption of a couple enjoying a convention together. Somehow it turned into a horror story.
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“Alright, convention tickets are booked. Autocloset is spooling up. I think we’re just about ready. So… who am I going to be?” I ask excitedly. “Saitama? Naruto? I was hoping for Alex Armstrong. Something to flex.”
My wife, Claire, uncups her hands with a mischievous smile, revealing the two 9-inch tall anime figurines.
“Tada!”
“Hold up. Girls? You didn’t specify I’d be a girl.”
“You didn’t specify that you wouldn’t either,” she says. “The agreement was if you lost the bed, I’d decide our cosplay for this year’s con. Think how much attention we’ll get together on the convention floor. Say hello to your body for the week,” she giggles, pushing the fox-eared figurine into my face.
“Not a chance.”
She ducks past, dropping the figurines into the template-input slot on the side of the autocloset. Flickering laser lights scan over the surface of the two models and a 3D grid-representation forms on the monitor as the machine extrapolates how it intends to reconfigure our appearances from the provided templates.
“You know I’m not comfortable with this machine already. Becoming a girl, and an animal girl to boot? That’s too much.” I approach the control panel to shut the closet down.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Claire laughs, giving me a playful shove that sends me stumbling through the closet doors. She skips in behind, the electronic doors snapping shut to seal us inside the metal chamber barely bigger than a coffin. The LED lights switch from an inviting yellow to a deep red - useful for masking the blood splatter during operations.
The autocloset hums to life, dozens of panels sliding back to unleash mechanic appendages. So far, so normal. I stand right in the middle, my natural impulse to stay as far away from the clacking medical implements as possible, though my wife greets them with open arms. Scanning lasers dance over us like a disco.
[Autocloset Active] says the smooth electronic voice. [Template Disparity. Entering Enhanced Reconfiguration Mode]
More panels slide back. Instead of dozens, the machine extends hundreds of autosurgeon limbs, though these are far spindlier and delicate, like elongated spider legs tipped with microscopic metal devices.
“Oh no,” I croak. My blood runs cold. “I didn’t input the size parameters.”
[Anesthetizing Clients For Enhanced Reconfiguration]
It’s the last thing we hear before numbing white mist spills down from ceiling vents. Hundreds of intricate steel limbs ensnare us as we drop unconscious.
A wave of hot, pink water shocks me awake. I’m on a flooded steel floor, staring up at a cathedral-like steel chamber. Soapy water laps at my lower body, against my thighs and pussy. Clods of yellow greasy material floating on the surface cling to my full, round breasts. But my attention is drawn away from my utterly transformed body to the sight around me.
All around are heaps of viscera, mounds of meat and yellow fat piled as high as houses, and rolls of skin like a carpet store. A thigh bone, twice as long as I am tall, juts out of one pile
High overhead, a huge mechanical limb articulates about the chamber, spraying the unpleasantly-familiar chunks of gore down with torrents of soapy water, sending them floating towards a large, gurgling drain in the corner of the vast hall.
“Claire!”
“Over here!”
The feline ears adorning the top of my head twist towards the source of her voice - a pair of disembodied breasts the size of cars. I wade over, grabbing the left tit with both arms and straining my entire body to lift it. A naked, dark-haired figure clambers out from under them.
“What happened?!” she gasps, staring around at the macabre landscape.
I shake her angrily. “You didn’t give me a chance to input the size parameters.”
“B-but we used templates…”
“Exactly! Nine-inch tall templates!”
It finally dawns on her. She stares at the piles of excised organs and muscles removed to make us fit its design, realising she’s staring at 99% of who she’d once been.
Overhead, the massive autocloset self-cleaning appendage fires another blast, dislodging an all-too familiar cylindrical object the length of a fallen tree trunk, if I do say so myself, which begins to slide its way on the increasing current towards the drain. Horrified, I wade after it as fast as my 4-inch legs will allow, the current nearly dragging me off my feet.
I grab one of the balls just as it floats over the edge, holding onto the appendage for dear life. I hang over the gurgling drain, not strong enough to pull the lump of meat back, slipping closer to the black hole millimeter by millimeter. Large fleshbergs spin around the opening, nearly jostling me in.
My wife grabs my arm, dragging me back. “Let it go! It’s not worth dying for!”
“Easy for you to say!”
My grip slips until I’m holding on by just a few hairs, then one… then none. My cock tumbles forever out of sight, gurgling down the flesh disposal-chute on its way to the sewer.