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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Kendrafication"  Your dick is bobbing in a way that makes you feel weird and uncomfortable as you cradle Kendra's mask with one hand while pulling off your clothes with the other. You're thinking of Kendra, of course, of her proud and beautiful face, of her slim and athletic body, and of her boobs and bits. But you're not looking at the nearly naked girl on the mat at your feet. You're thinking of her form: a phantom in your head. And you're thinking of how you will soon be so intimate with it that it will be your boobs and bits, your taut and bow-like body, and your proud face and cascading hair. It's a vivid fantasy that has overwhelmed you in a rush. When you first had the idea of switching places with one of Chelsea's friends, you were only thinking of it in the abstract, and tried not to think too concretely about what it would be like. And when you pitched the idea to Gordon, you were too worried about what he'd think—that you're a secret transgender case or something—to be other than squeamish at the thought. Even this morning, after you had hashed out a plan with Jason, you were only thinking of the mechanics of how to pull off the switch. Now that the moment is upon you, though, it makes you dizzy. Being Kendra Saunders, you think to yourself as you pull open the front of your trousers and push them down your legs. Being a cheerleader. Being a black girl! You won't have time, though, to seal the mask and put it on before the real girl wakes up. So after you've taken everything off—including your boxers—you reluctantly set the mask down on the mini-fridge the guys stock with beer, and look around for— Shit! The bag with your stuff! It's still downstairs in the gym! You hop nakedly from foot to foot, then with a gulp bolt from the room and tumble halfway down the stairs until you catch yourself. At the bottom, you sprint—your balls and cock bouncing loose and free—over to where you left them. Then, with them in hand, you make a frantic dash back to the staircase, dreading at any moment the sound of the gym door opening. Almost as bad, when you reach the loft, panting hard, is the sound of the phone buzzing inside the front pocket of Kendra's jeans. You cuss to yourself again when you pull it free to see there's a text from Jason, saying that he's on his way and will be at the school in fifteen minutes. Will that be enough time to complete the change? You chew your lip hard as with trembling thumbs you tap in a reply: Meet me at Starbucks instead. At least the panic has broken the spell that seemed to be upon you, and with quick, bold strokes you apply a sealant to the inside of Kendra's mask, then from the bag pull out the mask you made of yourself so very long ago and set it onto Kendra's face. This morning you completed it by applying the paste made by the new spell to its inner surface, and burned a bit of your own hair into it. * * * * * "So what do I tell Gordon about this plan?" Will Prescott asks you. His expression is anxious, and his eyes dart nervously as he dresses himself. "Like, do I tell him that, uh—" "Don't tell him anything unless he asks," you reply. Then you add, "And then ask him if he really wants to know the details." "And if he does?" The golem that wears your face pulls his shirt down over him, which messes his hair up even more. "Then tell him." "What about Caleb?" "Which one?" The golem gives you a look, then says, "Either of them." "Don't say anything to them. Leave it to me to tell them. Him." The unhappy teenage boy who is assuming your identity hops onto a crate to pull his shoes on. He only looked a little ill when he materialized on the mat where Kendra had been lying, and had been very docile about accepting your order to pull off the bra and panties he had been wearing. The look of peevish misery hadn't appeared on his face until you'd answered his hopeful Do I get to hang out with you after you've put on the new mask? with a firm No, followed by, As soon as you're dressed, get out of here and go home, start being me. And his unhappiness had deepened when you told him not to talk to you at school. I'll contact you later, tell you how to get in touch with me if you need to, you said. It's a great relief when he's finally gone, and to make sure that he's gone, you clamber up onto a crate and peep out one of the windows high up under the rafters of the gym, to watch below as he comes out. It gives you a very queer feeling to watch the skinny, gawky figure climb into the truck, and to realize that he's walking and moving the way you do. It's like how your own voice sounds strange when you listen to a recording of yourself. But looking at him, talking to him, watching him move, was doubly, triply, quadruply as weird and unsettling. But once he's gone the anxiety drains off your frame, letting the butterflies of anticipation beat more frantically inside your guts. Kendra's mask feels strangely heavy when you scoop it back up off the mini-fridge, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you study its glowing surface. Well, better get it going, you tell yourself, and you drop your naked, skinny ass onto the mat where Kendra had been lying not five minutes ago. You lay yourself back—imagining that you're fitting yourself into the groove that she had made—and raise the mask over your face. You suck in a deep breath, clench your eyes shut, and lower it onto your face. * * * * * It's the aching cold that wakes you, and you roll over onto your side with a groan, tugging for sheets and quilts that aren't there. Dimly, you realize that you are not at home in your own bed, and sit up with a frown. Your head aches. The smell is the first thing that tells you where you are. The grimy, sweaty, salty smell of boy sweat and socks, with an underlying note of cum. You always have to breathe through your mouth when you come up to the loft, until you get used to it. Smells to me like a good time, Steve said with a smirk when you mentioned it to him the first time he brought you up here, and you had to pretend to laugh. Steve. Is he here? You're never up here except with him, so you look around. The loft isn't just cold, it feels empty. Abandoned. The lights are off, and the overcast afternoon casts a grayish pall through the windows. You sit up with a shiver and look around for your clothes. You cluck your tongue at the untidy bundle they make by the mini-fridge. You reach for them— —and are overwhelmed by a plunging sense of deja vu. You fall forward, pushing your face into the mat, and gasp as half-remembered, undigested memories come welling up like a dark, cold flood from the base of your brain, to blind you and to drown you. You've been here before, you were here just now, you were here with someone else ... You were someone else. The shivers have gone when you raise your face again, and you are very calm. My name is Will Prescott, you tell yourself. You raise your hand to clutch a handful of the thickly tangled, kinky hair that brushes about your ears and shoulders. And I'm also Kendra Saunders! It's still very cold, but you are hot on the inside as you push yourself onto your feet, and pad over to the corner where the guys keep a floor-length mirror rescued from some long-ago disassembled gymnastics practice room. In its dim surface, the girl you have become approaches you as you approach her. You stop when you are close enough to make out her form and features, and she stops too. You regard her, and she regards you, with a lifted chin. You are slim and beautiful, as though sculpted from some soft, dark mineral. Your boobs are too small and your hips too narrow, but you are smooth and gently curved, and your neck is a pedestal for your head. You raise slim-fingered hands to your face, and cradle it between them. Your dark eyes flash liquidly, and your breath comes in little, hopping gasps as you contemplate your high cheekbones, your narrow jaw, and your broad forehead. With one hand you rub your cheek, and you drop your other first to brush and cradle a breast, and then to palm the length of your stomach to the folded skin and muscles below. They are shaved, but they prickle as you stroke a fingertip over them. Getting time to shave them again, you think, followed by the more exciting thought, I'm going to shave Kendra Saunders's pubes! Your fingertips are damp when you lift them back to your face. You sniff them, then lick them. There is no taste, but you tremble with excitement anyway. You're startled from this reverie by the buzz of your phone, and you hop back over to check it. It's a text from Jason: At starbucks now where u? You make a face. Kendra did not really want to meet Jason. Like Chelsea, she hates and distrusts him as a loathsome little creep who somehow glommed onto Gordon. But she was intrigued by the text she got from him, saying that he had gossip about "Gordon's new boyfriend." You're also interested in knowing what Jason has to say about you behind your back. But it would be easy enough to tell him that you've come down with a headache, and are going home. Next: "Two Snakes Walk Into a Coffee Bar ..." |
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