Supressing the urge to vomit, you quickly strip out of your clothes and reach down to lift the skinsuit remains of the insane splicer out from the pile of her clothes. It's heavier than you expect; still coated in a layer of blood and perspiration, you note nauseously.
Gingerly you place your hands inside her mouth. To your suprise, the inside is not bloody, wet and raw. It has been sealed by some sort of fast-drying fluid secreted from the wasps mouths, giving the inside a dry and soft, but still wierdly organic internal lining.
You pull the mouth a little wider; the skin stretches with remarkably little resistance. Sliding one naked leg into the opening and down into the leg, the skinsuit seems to cling tightly to your thigh. Still warm. Gross. It's like sitting on a warm toilet seat. Taken up to eleven.
Slide in the other leg. You pause to examine your body below the waist; shapely, feminine if not exactly slim. It seems the wasps left the subcutaneous fat around the thighs and ass relatively untouched and the extra padding masks your male contours. The tattered bloody remains of a nylon stocking still clings to one of the skinsuit legs.
There's the sound of breaking glass outside and shuffling footsteps. Hurriedly you pull the skin up over your torso, sliding your hands into the skinsuits hands, and finally stretching the gaping mouth up over the back of your head. Her facial features slide smoothly into yours like a mask. You peer out through her empty eye sockets, breathe through her lips. The shuffling grows closer. You can be squicked out later, but for now...
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