Crossed Wires (MtF Mind Cloning)

A procedure to transfer simple skills from one person to another goes wrong and clones a man’s mind in to his female friend’s body in Crossed Wires, available on Smashwords, Amazon, or wherever ebooks are sold.

I was just trying to help out my friend by transferring some of my knowledge to her at one of those new transfer centers that were popping up everywhere. It was supposed to be a simple procedure that cloned certain skills from one person’s brain to another. But something went wrong and I found my entire brain cloned into my friend’s body, replacing her mind with my own.

Now I’m her. Shorter. Cuter. And…a woman. But neither my old body nor my real girlfriend has any idea.

It’s confusing and intriguing being an attractive woman but still with my male desires. Particularly my desire for my new body. I’m stuck in her until they fix the problem so surely a little peek couldn’t hurt. And once I’m done with that, maybe it’s time to invite my girlfriend in on the fun…

This 10,000+ word story contains mind cloning and explicit solo, lesbian and group scenes.

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I’m not nervous at all but my girlfriend, Keri, is a little tense as she pulls into a parking spot outside of the institute. She cuts the engine and turns her wide sea-green eyes to me. The top of her lemon yellow tee shirt is cut in a V-neck, allowing me a slight glimpse of her wonderfully deep cleavage.

“You ready?” She asks.

“Yeah.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s no big deal. It’s a pretty routine procedure now.”

She chews on her lower lip, a habit she has when she’s fighting the urge to argue. “They’re not going to, like, fry your brain or anything?”

I laugh. “It doesn’t work like that. Haven’t you ever done it before?”

She shakes her head then sweeps her dirty-blonde hair behind one ear. Her brow is slightly furrowed, her slim eyebrows arching down in the middle. She’s really worried and I feel bad for laughing. I admit, I had reservations, too, when I found out Sierra had booked this particular transfer center. I could understand why, though. It’s one of the newer budget options that’s become popular as the technology has become more widely available. Not as flash as the original center and not able to do everything the original can, but for most people it’s enough.

“All I do is put on this metal helmet thing and do some typing,” I explain. “They identify that language processing activity in my cortex and essentially copy and paste that knowledge over to Sierra, overwriting her dyslexia. So they’re not actually changing anything on me.”

Keri’s shoulders relax and her natural half-smile returns to her lips. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it. Then we can get some breakfast.”

I lean over and kiss her on the lips, enjoying the lightly floral scent of perfume that I forever associate with her.

We get out of the car and hurry through the parking lot to the front doors of the institute. Heat rising off the pavement warps the air around us. Despite the oppressive heat I like this time of year because I get to see more of Keri. She’s usually shy about her body because she’s not a skinny blonde, like many of the women in Los Angeles, including Sierra. Keri’s got a wonderful slightly plump figure, and I glance down at her delightful bubble butt as it wiggles in front of me, fighting the urge to reach out and give it a pat like I do when we’re home alone. We’ve been together four years and we still want each other every day.

The crisp air conditioned lobby of the transfer center is a welcome relief. The reception area is bland and corporate. A cheap looking beige couch faces two matching armchairs. An ugly coffee table sits in between them, neatly stacked with some recent copies of Los Angeles Magazine. The walls are hung with inoffensive corporate art featuring landscapes and vases of flowers.

As Keri and I approach the reception desk the pleasant-looking Latina looks up at us with a smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for an appointment for Sierra Everly.”

I slip my arm around Keri’s waist and lean down to kiss the top of her head as the receptionist looks up the details on her computer.

“Found you,” she says. “Is Sierra with you?”

“No, she’s—”

The sound of the glass doors swishing open behind me draws my attention. I turn as Sierra rushes inside. “Here she is,” I tell the receptionist.

Sierra slides off her sunglasses and shoves them in her purse as she nears us. She wears a modest light pink tee shirt, and her khaki shorts reveal long, incredible legs.

“I’m not late!” Sierra insists jokingly, reaching up to hug me and then turning to hug Keri.

“Take a seat and the doctor will be right with you,” the receptionist says.

We move over to the seating area. Keri and I sit on the couch as Sierra drops into one of the chairs across from us, tucking one slender leg beneath her before pushing her fine blonde hair out of her eyes. She digs through her unwieldy purse for her phone, pushing whatever other detritus she keeps in there out of the way before finally finding it. She checks it briefly then carelessly tosses it back in and turns her bright blue eyes to us.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” she chirps.

“No problem,” I say, waving it away.

Despite Keri’s antipathy towards the skinny blondes who make up a large portion of the Los Angeles population, Keri likes Sierra. How could anyone not? Sierra’s down-to-earth and effortlessly cute, a sharp contrast to the carefully manufactured and heavily made-up blondes trying to becoming actresses in this city. I know that Keri harbors some jealousy towards Sierra and, despite my insistence otherwise, probably thinks I have a little crush on her. She’s actually right about that, though I would never admit it to either of them.

“Oh my gosh,” Sierra says, emphasizing her excitement with her hands. “I clipped this guy’s car backing out of the coffee place this morning. He gets out of the car and I thought he was going to be all upset and do that big puffed-up man thing…” Here Sierra holds her arms out to her sides, raises her shoulders and affects a deep voice “Yo! That’s my precious baby. Look at this dent.” She drops her arms and laughingly twirls a lock of blonde hair around a finger. “But he asked me out. I think he was almost glad I clipped him. He even offered to pay for my car.”

That’s Sierra in a nutshell. She doesn’t rely on her girl-next-door looks and charm to ease through life, but things just work out for her. I glance at Keri and notice her slightly tense smile. She’s thinking the same thing—that Sierra’s effortless cuteness has allowed her to escape yet another problem—but Sierra is so impossible to hate.

The receptionist speaks up from the other side of the room. “Sierra? They’re ready for you.” She gestures to a door on one side of the room where two technicians in blue scrubs wait patiently, each with a clipboard in hand.

“Back in about thirty minutes,” I say to Keri, before giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Sierra and I are taken into the back and down a short hallway with rooms on either side. Through the glass square inset into each door I see other people here for treatment. The rooms on the right clearly contain the recipients. They lie back in padded chairs, seemingly asleep, the cybernetic helmet pulled down to cover their eyes.

Across the hallway, the donors practice whatever knowledge they’re transferring so the machines could read it from their minds. They’re engaged in various activities from strumming a guitar to doing some sort of complex math.

When we reach two empty rooms Sierra is escorted into one. She shoots me a quick reassuring smile before disappearing into the room. The remaining technician escorts me into the room across the hall and ushers me into a chair in front of a computer.

“You’re here to transfer written language?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Great. Do you know how this all works?”

“I’ve done it once before.”

“Excellent. So you know when it’s all set up you just do the skills concentrating as much as you can.”

“Got it.”

“Ok. You can find and load up the program while I get the equipment ready.”

The technician picks up a large helmet and begins sterilizing the inside of it with a wet wipe. The helmet looks like the kind a fighter pilot would wear, going down over the ears and the back of the head. My donor helmet leaves the face visible but I know that the receiver helmet completely covers the eyes to prevent disorientation.

I pull up some writing programs and find a prompt on the internet to help me get started. It doesn’t have to be a work of genius. It’s just to target my copywriting skills: spelling, punctuation, grammar. That sort of thing. Apparently, dyslexia has been a minor annoyance for Sierra’s whole life and she finally has enough money to get rid of it through the magic of modern silence.

When I have the programs up, the technician slips the helmet on over my head and clasps it firmly in place. He runs some diagnostics test first as I wait. There’s a slight electronic hum but beyond that I don’t feel a thing. After a minute he speaks up.

“You’re good to go. The receiver is all set up. Whenever you’re ready you may begin.”

I start typing, taking care to ensure that I’m thinking things through and my grammar is impeccable. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I get in to the story. I expect the helmet’s hum to increase in intensity and for the whole process to take about twenty minutes. What I don’t expect is that everything suddenly goes black.

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