Mature Content

Money Maker - 1 [Race/TG/Age Regression] by Transviscera

What better way to sail off into retirement than literally, on a boozy cruise down the east coast of the Americas? At each port, Peter's wife would venture onto land to potter around museums and markets and all that boring nonsense, while he had the peace of the ship to indulge himself.
The weather was particularly fine in the Gulf of Mexico, the sun beating down over crystal clear seas. At Cancun, the guests filed off the ship like cattle, and Peter found he had the top deck, with its amply stocked, all-inclusive bar all to himself. He settled comfortably into a deck chair with a book of crossword puzzles and a lager or two, or three, as the sun climbed higher in this sky.
It was late evening when he was shaken awake from his drunken stupor. The ship staff were standing over him with worried faces, as the smell of pork crackling hung in the air. His belly jutted out like a ripe tomato, his pasty skin burnt red and peeling like wallpaper. He had all but cooked himself!
He was disembarked straight to the nearest hospital. He lay in the hospital bed as doctors gathered around to talk treatment options with his wife. He was half-delirious with sunstroke, yet lucid enough to recognize the greedy gleam in the surgeon's eyes. Foreign tourists meant deep pockets. And there was his trusting wife, nodding away!
"Don't bloody sign anything, Margaret!" he protested feebly. "Just have them give me some cream and wheel me to the door. I'll be fine." The surgeon pressed a mask to his face, and white gas forced him into unconsciousness.
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He awoke, fighting through the anesthetic haze and a murderous hangover. He was on a ward, propped up on pillows, too sore even to turn his head. His skin felt tight, raw, and even more sensitive than before. The doctor was perched on the side of the bed, smiling down at him. He held a tube of ointment, and his hands dipped below Peter's line of sight. He felt cold salve being spread across the tender skin of his chest by the slow, strong strokes of the man's hand. and shuddered with the relief it brought to the tightness of his skin, even as his blood boiled at the strange intimacy of the process. The young man was clearly enjoying himself far more than was normal, meeting the old man's gaze as he massaged and kneaded his chest.
If only I had the strength to knock his hands away, Peter fumed.
"How bad is it, doctor?" Peter croaked, licking his parched lips. They felt oddly swollen under his tongue.
"Very bad, but you are lucky. We did our best for you," the surgeon replied in clumsy English.
"I meant how bad is the bill."
"Your skin, very damaged. Burnt. Blistered. So I remove it. Excise the damage. Excise all of it. But I get, how you say, carried away?"
"'Excise'?!" Peter spluttered. "It was just a little heatstroke, you quack!"
The surgeon shushed him and then, to Peter's great surprise, pressed a finger to his plump lips. Peter choked and spluttered at the sheer impertinence of the young man. "Do not worry. We have donor skin we give you. Synthetic cells. Polymers. Sun resistant. Locally grown. We replace everything we remove. Very advanced."
"Very expensive!" Peter bellowed. "Do you have any idea how much synthskin costs?" The predatory smirk on the surgeon's face told him that he did. "You sons of... How much is this going to cost me?"
"Well let's see here..." The surgeon drew a hand scanner and flicked its laser across Peter's chest with a beep. "The upper body, plus face, is $85,000. Your lower body..."
The surgeon slid a hand under his patient's body, levering him up out of the bed. Peter wobbled on weak, sedated legs, grabbing the man for support. The man's rough hands turned him around and, as he did, turned Peter towards the mirror in the corner of the hospital room. Reflected there, he saw a well-endowed Mexican girl, her weak body trembling as she clung desperately to the surgeon's arm, as she was manhandled from the bed. The surgeon's strong arms forced him forward, and Peter watched as the beauty in the mirror was similarly bent over the bed, exposing a black and white barcode branded upon her plump behind. The surgeon pushed the scanner to it, and horrified realization finally sank in, much as he felt the blunt head of the scanner sinking into the full flesh of his reskinned ass cheek. Gone was his beer gut. Gone were his sagging man boobs, replaced with a far perkier pair of supple breasts cradled within the cups of his bra. He had been skinned alive! Unable to look away, his eyes drifted down to the shapely void between his tanned thighs.
"Oh, my god..."
*beep*
"Your lower body will cost $60,000."
Peter wailed. "You... you... You didn't have to do this. I never agreed to this!"
"Ah, but your wife did. She asked us to fix you. We fixed you. We would not want you to feel we have taken advantage of you in any way." He leaned closer. "Now would you like to pay by card? Or some other way?"
Peter felt what might have been the scanner dig into his buttock again, and gulped. "C-card will do fine!"