It was long past the day when I could have transitioned. I was 34 and the effects of testosterone were irreversible. That’s what I thought until one morning when I heard a ring at the door. Standing outside was a fit little piece of ass in a pretty kinky 80s gym-type bondage outfit. It wasn’t really my style.
“Hello, Tyrone,” she said, “I know this kind of outfit isn’t the kind of thing you like yet.”
“What? Who are you?” I said.
“I’m Theresa. You’ve never met me, but I know you quite well.”
I took a good look at her face. She looked like she could be my sister.
“How does that work, exactly,” I asked, “are you–like–a stalker?”
“No,” she responded, “I’m you in 150 years!”
I was stunned. Apparently at the age of 64, after saving money for a decade and drawing prototype bodies each night, I died of a heart attack and was cryogenically frozen. After reanimation I took advantage of neo-humanity’s mastery of molecular biology to transform myself into a sexy vixen.
After much deliberation, my feminized self convinced me to go a few rounds in the bed. I had learned a lot in the century and a half that separated us.
After the sex I became despondent. She didn’t have to ask me what the matter was.
“Chill out, Ty,” she said, “you don’t think I just came here to tease you, do you? As soon as we met we became two different people on different timelines. You don’t have to wait like I did. You’re coming to my time period today. I’m very wealthy in the future. If you think this body is nice, wait till you see the one I’ve designed for you!
