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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "From Bitch to Bully"  You had woken with a start, and for several long moments lain on the bed, blinking at a strange ceiling. But you hadn't been confused for long. David Kirkham's memories were like a swampy pool puddling in the back of your head as you rested and gathered your wits. All you had to do was sink back into them, and let them fill and soak into you. And when they'd filled you ... Fuck me, you thought as you raised a hand and turned it this way and that, studying it as you flexed your fingers. You made a fist, and felt a strong, hard bicep bunch up. You snorted softly to yourself, and sat up. That's when you found the girl sleeping on the bed at your side. She was naked, same as you. She had Kelsey Blankenship's slender, summer-tanned form, and instantly your cock sprang to attention. You stroke her inner thigh again, now with your palm, then clasp it firmly. Kelsey's expression—blank and languid as she drowses—doesn't change. But her mouth somehow becomes even more inviting. This fucking cunt. You've watched her from afar all through high school, lusting for her and resenting her, knowing that there's an uncrossable ditch between you, one dug by the girl herself. Her and her fucking country club set, swanning around and trying not to look at, let alone touch, guys like you. And then when you found out she was regularly coming to the Donna, and letting Karl Hennepin fuck her ... Jesus! What the fuck was a cunt-faced bitch like Kelsey doing, opening her snatch to a goober like Hennepin? It was crazy, infuriating. Could he give her a good fuck? Could he give her a fuck even a tenth as good as you could? You'd more or less told him that one day when you were ditching class, out by the portables. You'd just come out with it, no one had even been talking about it, but the longer you looked at Hennepin the hotter and sicker you felt, until you just flat out asked him what Kelsey tasted like, and what he was doing with her, and did he actually fucking think he was any good at any of the things he was doing to her. It didn't go over well. Roth was there, and he told you to shut the fuck up, and you almost clocked him in the face but held back because there's a bridge between you and him that you don't want to torch. So you let it drop but glowered at Hennepin and burned a couple of cigarettes until he got the hint and moved on. Anytime you see Hennepin around it just pisses you off all over again. And now here you are with Kelsey. Alone. Alone and naked. Except it's not Kelsey, and you know it's not Kelsey anymore than you are David Kirkham. And it's that knowledge that probably keeps you from mounting her while she's still asleep. Instead you stroke her and kiss her, all around and practically on top of her pussy, until with a faint groan she begins to stir. You lay down next to her, propped on an elbow, and cradle the side of her head with your free hand. She turns toward you, and her eyes crack open. "Hmm?" she says, and then, "Ooh!" and then, "Hey!" She reaches over to stroke the side of your face. "Interesting." But now that she's awake, you can't wait anymore. Your cock has been throbbing gently but insistently all this time. You lean in and cover her mouth with yours. She grunts in surprise, then opens her mouth to accept your tongue and your teeth. You pull and bite at her, thinking as you do so, I'm finally getting it. I'm finally gonna bust loose inside Kelsey Blankenship. I'm gonna make her scream. You shift atop her and slide a knee in between her thighs. She hesitates as though surprised, then pulls her legs apart, and you roll over between them. Supporting yourself on one elbow you glower down into her face as you explore with your straining dick for the gash hiding inside her bush. When you find it, you reach down to guide yourself in, then lift yourself up to loom over her. She gasps and grunts. "Jesus, you're not wasting anytime, are you?" she says. You don't dignify that with an answer. Inch by inch you slide deeper into her, forcing her open. She's dry as you enter, but she gamely goes along with you, lifting her hips to drive herself more deeply onto your spike. Once you feel yourself firmly mounted, you plunge your face into the crook of her neck, to kiss and nip. She nearly comes off the bed beneath you, and at last the juices start to come. She groans and pants as you begin to rhythmically pump at her, but you restrain yourself until she has caught up to you. Then you feel the moment you begin to overtop yourself, and linger momentarily as though atop a precipice—then you are falling into her, hard. But she doesn't scream. She just whimpers and squeaks. It disgusts you, but you finish with a drawn-out sequence of bangs, squirting as many final drops into her as you can. Then you go boneless atop her. She gasps, and shoves at you until with a groan you roll off. * * * * * You're still sprawling on the bed, legs spread with a cock gently bobbing back to attention, but she's almost dressed. You'd cuddled for awhile after regaining some little strength, but then she suddenly got very brusque and businesslike, and said she had to go. It left you resentful, but there's no fucking way you were going to humiliate yourself by arguing. "Do you want me to call Amanda, have her come back here?" Kelsey asks as she fumbles through her bag to pull out a hairbrush. "No." She pauses to give you a look. "You want me to stay, is that it?" "Can if you want." She sighs, and starts to brush out her hair. "What's your deal, Will?" You snort, then grind the heel of your hand into an eyeball. "I dunno," you admit. "You should take off, though, if I'm not gonna be any fun." She gives you a smirk. "You were fun, right after I woke up." Maybe that's it. It was anticlimactic. You wanted to force yourself onto Kelsey, but she was too accepting, and she didn't yelp like you wanted. Also, she's not the real Kelsey. You study her from under your brows. That's really Sydney, you try telling yourself, and even though you know and feel it's not Kelsey, you can't quite believe it's Sydney either. People being other fucking people, you sourly muse. What a pathetic puke you'd have to be to want to be someone else. To get what you want by not being yourself. What's the point? Take all you can get, because you get what you deserve. "So what are you going to do about Will Prescott and Sydney McGlynn?" She has finished brushing out her hair, and turns that smug and so-very-Kelsey-like smirk onto you. "Nothing, I guess." You suck in a cheek. "That was the point of this, right? To get Kirkham off'a them." "Mm. But I told you—" She comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, and strokes your calf. "We wanted David for the Brotherhood. He seems like a such a perfect recruit." A trace of a frown flutters over her face. "Or does it seem like we were wrong?" "No. We weren't wrong." You're suddenly aware that you've crossed your arms defensively, but you don't relax. "But I just—" You rub your eye again. It's frustrating knowing that something is off, but not be able to figure it out. "I guess I just need to get used to this." "You having a hard time getting his memories, or something?" "No, I think maybe that's the problem. I got 'em too well. Got all of 'em—got all of him too good." "What do you mean?" "I dunno." You shift restlessly. "It's like he's in me too deep, and— I dunno," you repeat, then blurt out, "He's not fucking happy about being turned into a fucking meat puppet." Especially by a fucking little cum-puddle like Prescott. Kelsey purses her lips. "So who's in charge, Will?" she asks. "You or him?" And with that she stands up, hikes her purse onto her shoulder, and strides for the door. "I paid for a night in this room, Will," she says. "In case you don't understand how it works, when you check out, they'll refund you the unused hours. But you can hang out here as long as you want." She flashes you a quick smile—a real bitchy, Kelsey-like smile—and goes out the door. You glower thoughtfully after her. Yeah. So who is in charge, man? you muse. You hike yourself up with a grunt and pad into the bathroom. You put on a light, and check yourself out in the mirror. Your eyes are dark hazel under a strong, lowering brow, and you've a well-shaped nose over a small mouth that easily settles into something between a smirk and a sneer. Your thatch of dark brown hair—thick as a haystack—parts roughly in the middle, and falls over your ears and the top of your neck. You've a body to match the watchful glower that's your natural expression: strong and lithe but not sinewy, with smooth skin that isn't soft. You shift on your feet, and lean back to return the asshole in the mirror the same "fuck you" stare he's giving you. Yeah, you just keep on being mad at me, motherfucker, you tell him, and your lips work a little as you think it. But I'm in fucking charge of you now. Yeah, I'm wearing you, motherfucker, like a fucking skinsuit, and I got my fingers so far up your asshole I'm finger-banging your brain. Ain't a goddam thing you can do about it, either. I'm running your machine now, Kirkham. Me, Will Prescott, that cum-puddle. Your sneer deepens. Enjoy it while I drive you around. Next: "At Home as David Kirkham" |
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