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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Road Back to Yourself"  You hesitate, wondering how to intrude into a conversation where (supposedly) you don't know anyone. But you decide to trust in Sydney. You sidle up to the booth, and your skin prickles as the guy with the wild hair glances over at you. "Hey," you croak. "Hey yourself," Andrea purrs with a half-smile. "Welcome to the party." It might be your imagination, but there's a glint of satire in her eyes. "I'm, uh, Will. Prescott." If you don't know anyone (supposedly) it seems best to introduce yourself. "Oh, so you're Will," Andrea says with cool indifference. "Sorry guys," she says to the other two. "My date's here." Your jaw drops, and you feel a blush boiling up under your scalp. The other two look at you in surprise. "Date?" the guy blurts out. "Study date," Andrea says. (Her tone is very soft.) "Hey, stop by my place later on, if you don't got anything else to do. Charles'll probably be trying to start something." The guy and girl—still with arms around each other's waists—nod and tell her "Later" before shuffling off. You slide stiffly into the booth opposite Andrea. "You know Adam and Catherine?" she asks. "I've seen him around." The guy's hair is like a poofy tumbleweed, and it's a sight hard to miss when he goes pushing past in the crowded school hallways. Now that you think about it, you do seem to remember the name "Adam" being associated with him. "They're going together out now. If you can believe it." Andrea sniffs, then straightens up so that her boobs thrust out. "How do you like it, Will?" she murmurs through unmoving lips. "Is it everything you dreamed of?" Zing! Your cock, which has been panting and quivering all this time, pops out as far as it can in the tight confines of your trousers. Andrea Varnsworth isn't "adorable," the way a fluffy blonde cheerleader like Chelsea Cooper is adorable, but she may be just about the sexiest girl at school. She's the captain of the swim team, and her body has been honed by the water into a smooth and sculpted figure with hydrodynamic curves and tapering legs. She's got breasts like fat, ripe pears, and smooth, evenly tanned skin. She has a strong jaw and cheekbones, with cheeks stretched tautly between; an aquiline nose; dark, hooded, speculating eyes; and hair the color of chocolate milk that flows in flat but silky tresses to the tops of her shoulders. "How'd you pull it off?" you ask in a low, half-strangled voice. "The switch." Her expression curdles with disappointment. "Tch, it was so easy. I just called her out to Kelsey's house, told her there was some school club stuff I needed to talk to her about that impacted the swim team. She didn't want to come, but she came out anyway." "You sure are acting like her. You've got all her memories and stuff?" Andrea returns only the hint of a nod. "I did the things separately, like we did with David. I put the memory strip on first, then the mask. I'll take them off and and glue them together tonight." You are stuck—addled—for something to say, so you ask, "Who are those guys?" and nod at the table on the other side of the dining room, where the other two have settled. "Adam and Catherine. You know them." "I've seen them. Seen him. Jesus." "Isn't his hair great?" "You like that?" Her lips purse into the tiniest smile. "I'm just teasing you, Will." You glance around the room again, confirming your impression that the other two are secretly watching you and Andrea. "So if we're here on a 'study date'—" "That was just something I said, to get rid of them." "Well, I didn't bring any books, and it doesn't look like you did either." She drinks from her mug, then says, "I told you, Will. It was just something I said to get rid of them." She pauses. "What do you want to do now?" You know what you want to do now, and you tell her, bluntly. To your astonishment, she smiles and gets to her feet. "So let's go do it. Now." * * * * * She is warm and she is tight, and she squeaks in the back of her throat as you shove yourself deeper into her. She is slim, and she fits neatly inside your arms as you pull her toward yourself, and her own arms grip you tightly. Her bare legs slide up and down yours as she twists herself under you, questing for a tighter, deeper fit. She throws her head back, exposing her long, pedestal-like neck; her face is taut with an agony of unquenched arousal. Somehow you are aware of all this even as your attention is focused on the hot, aching, rock-like boner you have forced up inside her. She lives in a small house in a shabby neighborhood where the lawns are weedy and unmowed. She lives alone with her mother, she explained as she let you in, who is a waitress and assistant manager at Ristorante Locarno. "Yeah, hey, come lookit this," she said as you were surveying the strikingly bare living room, which is furnished only with a futon, a desk and chair, a small bookshelf, and a music stand with old-fashioned stereo and tower of CDs. She led you into the tiny kitchen and pulled open a drawer, and you gaped at the messy salad of paper money shoved inside it: fives, tens, twenties, and even a few hundreds all floating loose. "My mom doesn't believe in banks," she explained as she opened another drawer also swimming in cash. "I mean, she does have a bank account, 'cos she needs a place to deposit her paychecks. But these are her tips." She then led you into the back yard, which is very small and almost entirely given over to a vegetable garden, now picked clean. She pointed where the rows of carrots and potatoes and beets and onions and lettuce and beans had been, and the berry bushes and the tomato vines. You nodded but mostly you were watching her with watering eyes. Despite the cool October air—the temperatures are hovering in the mid-fifties, and it has been raining off and on—she was dressed in a sleeveless halter top that drapes over her boobs and dangles its hem just over her bellybutton; and short-shorts that expose long, strong, slim legs that are bare from her hips down to the slip-on shoes she was wearing without socks. By your estimation, there were only five skimpy pieces of clothing you need to peel off her. But you acted like a good guest, nodding along to her little tour, until you were inside again, standing in the hall that connects the kitchen and living room and bathroom. She stopped there, and fell back to rest her shoulder blades on the wall, and regarded you from under hooded lids. "I thought you wanted to do something with me, Will," she said in a small voice. That's when you stepped in close, slid an arm around her waist, and put your mouth to hers. You stood there a very long time, kissing deeply with loud, smacking lips and rubbing palms over each other until her knees buckled suddenly and she gasped, "Get me to the bed," and you half-supported her as you guided her into the front bedroom, where a messy double bed kept company with a dresser and mirror and a rocking chair. She fell onto the bed and tugged you onto it with her, and you pressed your face into hers while she unbuttoned your shirt and pushed it back over your shoulders. And then she laid there with a small, watchful pout, as you got back up to pull your shirt and jeans off, and kick your shoes off. Then she laid back limply as with a hooked finger you took off her shoes and massaged her feet, then pulled her shirt off and kissed the side of her belly all over; then unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them off her hips and legs; then turned her over so you could kiss her ass cheeks. Finally, you tweaked her bra and panties off, and you pulled off your own boxers, and you stretched yourself over her and between her legs, and with her help you guided your cock into the warm, cocooning embrace she had prepared for you. And then you really went to work on her. * * * * * "Don't take this the wrong way, Will," Andrea says later, when you're cuddling, naked, in bed. "'Cos this is kind of an awkward question." You tense. What if she asks me where I learned to fuck like that? you wonder in a panic. Because much as you'd like to boast that you must just be a natural at it, the fact is that you got through the entire thing, from that first kiss to the final, eruptive climax, by asking yourself, What would David Kirkham do? You don't have his memories anymore, but just imitating the impression you still carry around of him seems to have been enough. But the question she does ask is somehow even more mortifying: "Are you going to be able to fit in with my friends? With Andrea's friends, I mean?" "Like who?" "'Cos you're going to have to, if we're going to be dating." "Like who?" you ask again. "Like Charles. Charles Hartlein. Jelena Petrovic. Fatima Zahedi." Charles is a very gay theater guy. Jelena plays in a garage band. Fatima is a stylishly bohemian Persian girl. "Well, I better," you mumble. "I don't have any other friends these days." Andrea raises up and squints at you. Then she puts her head back down. "Maybe I could get you in with Adam and Catherine and their friends," she says. "I think you'd be a good fit with them." The statement surprises you. You mean I've got a choice? you wonder. Next: "In the Wake of a New Girlfriend" |
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