%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Changed Cheerleader"  You trot back into the library. Hidden between two desks, where you couldn't see from the doorway, lies the crumpled body of Jordan Cooper. He's sloppily dressed in skimpy black running shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top. You lay the new mask across his face, then sit to wait. You have ten minutes to kill the while the mask copies him, and you spend it with Yumi's cell phone in your hand. You warned Prescott when you picked up the mask to be ready to meet you up at Westside so you could release Yumi and transfer the Prescott mask onto Jordan. But now that it's crunch time, you change your mind. If you leave your mask on Yumi, and put Yumi's mask on Jordan, you will have two golems under your control, and one of them (Yumi) you can use to watch happenings at school. So you send your old self a text cancelling the meeting. * * * * * The flip-flops flap noisily against your heels as you swagger back to the dining room. Blackwell, still bent over his work, glances up. "Any ill effects from the sleeping mist?" he asks as you jerk your chin in greeting. "Nah, none that I can tell." You grin past him at the Yumi-bot, who is glowering at you from the far corner of the room. You have Jordan's memory—and barely that—of the front door opening and of a fat man with a tangled beard raising a spray bottle to mist you in the face with something sticky. "Mnh," Blackwell says. "Jordan Cooper, you say this young man's name is? Kindly leave me with a copy of his class schedule. Can you say when it would be convenient for you to schedule your studies with me?" You lean against the doorway and suck a tooth. Never is the answer Jordan would prefer to give. Classes get in the way of hanging out with friends and going to parties, and with trips to the clubs and the titty bars. The last thing Jordan Cooper wants is to crowd his free time with more classes and studying. "He's got free hours here and there," you say. "You know what college schedules are like." (And so do you, now.) "I guess my nights are all free, though. But, uh, that's when I'm supposed to be doing my regular classwork, you know." There is no mirth in the professor's smile. "Then I will expect you here each afternoon by four-thirty," he says, "for a set of six-hour tutorials." Your jaw drops. "Hey, I'll have a character to keep up! I can't—" "You will have no problem on that score. We will use the golem to keep Mr. Cooper in circulation while you are studying with me. You do remember the golem, don't you, Mr. Prescott?" he adds as your mouth hangs open. "Well ... yes." That would be the stone thing that wore your mask home while you stayed nights with the professor, before you began your impersonation of Yumi. "We will resume your studies as before, with you spending afternoons, evenings, and nights with me, when possible. With the help of the golem, your young man here can take care of his own social life and academic studies even as you pursue yours with me." You are nearly speechless, for this is the opposite of what you were planning. "I'll have to put some of that stuff inside my mask," you point out. "So I can order it around." "No need. My golem will obey my instructions, and I will instruct it to be here in the mornings in time for you to change for classes, and to resume Mr. Cooper's existence when you are not occupying it." You rub your temples. "Do I at least get today off? To be Jordan?" Blackwell's smile is so thin you can hardly see it inside the tangle of his beard. "I hope you don't take me for a Dickensian taskmaster," he says. "Your time is your own until four-thirty." It's already half-past-one, so that only gives you three hours of free time. Rather than argue—which would be useless—you gesture Yumi to follow you, and race out of the house. * * * * * After giving Yumi instructions of your own—mainly, to just be herself and to listen closely to all the gossip about Chelsea—you climb into the old family sedan that Jordan owns and set off for home. On the drive, you settle more deeply into Jordan's mind and personality, probing his mental recesses like a dentist picking at the crevasses of his teeth. Jordan, it appears to you, is oblivious to his father's impatience, but you still breathe in relief when you pull into the driveway and see that his car is gone. Eager though you are to find one of the body-swapped Cooper girls, you milk the anticipation by pausing to first root through the refrigerator for leftovers. With a cold slice of maple-glazed pork tenderloin between two pieces of bread, you shuffle into the back of the house, drawn by the soft hum of machinery. Your mom—or so she appears to be—is hunched atop the exercise bike, pedaling furiously. Her face is red, and her hair hangs limply around her face. She says nothing, but her expression hardens when she sees you. "Hey. 'Mback," you tell her through a mouthful of gummy bread. "So I see," she huffs. When you say nothing, she adds, "You didn't come home last night." "Crashed with Jack. Game went long." You tear another hunk out of the sandwich. She says nothing, and you just smack and chew your snack while watching her. Why is Chelsea working her mom-body so hard? you wonder. Mom's not out of shape. She's in great shape, in fact. Well, for her age, that is. "Do you want anything else?" your mom asks. "Honey," she adds in a very tight voice. "Nhn. Just chillin'. 'Specting to hear from some'n, 'n killing time till then. I'll take a shower, I guess." You pop the last of the sandwich into your mouth. "Don't use up all the hot water. Like you usually do." "I'll make it quick and cold," you assure her, then amble out. * * * * * The shower gives you your first chance to really get a feel for this new body. Jordan is in pretty good shape, but even he is aware of a gap between himself and most of his teammates. He worked out pretty hard when he was in high school, and so you've got his deep chest, his strong thighs and calves, and his biceps. But he's gotten slacker and lazier since moving up to Keyserling, so that he's softened where once he was hard. You have to press deep with a fingertip, for instance, to feel the abdominal muscles that were once visible but which are now buried under a pillow of belly fat. And as for the short, curly hair (blonde, but with the faintest tinge of copper)— Well, when you study yourself in the mirror after the shower, with your scalp wet and plastered down, it is all too easy to see the fissures and furrows opening up in the front, where the widow's peak (once so firm) is starting to collapse and retreat. Still, you've got a girlfriend, and a sausage-like cock and a set of balls that from long practice you know how to use. You squeeze your ball sack now as you study your reflection, and gently run a thumbnail along the underside of your stiffening cock, and think back to last Thursday night, when Elise last sucked Jordan off. It was four in the morning, in one of the college laundry rooms, while he kept her company as she waited for the dryers to finish her things. In your bedroom you change into clean underwear and track pants before, bare-chested and bare-footed, you pad back downstairs again to flop onto one of the sofas in the living room. You flick on the TV and stop on one of the college ball games. You're actually getting into it—there are two surprise touchdowns in ten minutes—when your mom, looking freshly showered, sweeps into the room with a dust rag. "Get your feet off the coffee table," she barks. "I'm not wearing any shoes!" you protest, but you lift and drop your feet anyway. "Don't backtalk me, Jordan. I'm not in the mood." You flinch. "Where's Chelsea?" She hesitates. "Grocery store. She's in charge of dinner tonight." "Oh, Jeez—" You catch yourself. "Guess I'll go eat with Jack and them, then." "You do that," she snaps, and the firmness of her retort startles you. You can only stare as she bends over to rub furiously at the spot on the coffee table where you'd been resting your bare feet. "And while you're eating with him, find out how much he'd charge you to rent his couch." "What? Why would I want to rent his—?" "Does he have a spare room? Do any of your friends have a spare room?" There's a tone of barely controlled fury in her voice. "Your dad's talking about giving you one month, Jordan, one month to find a place on campus to live. And if you can't find a place of your own or someone to room with, you'll have to rent a couch from someone." She gives the coffee table one last, firm slap with the cloth, then straightens up to hold your eye. There's a triumphant gleam in it. You feel your mouth hanging open. "Okay," you say after taking a deep breath. "I'll talk to Jack or some of the other guys. I'll, uh, need some help paying for—" "If you've got enough free time for all-night games with your friends, you've got enough free time to get a job." Now your eyes bulge. "Uh, well—" "And you'll be paying for your own meals, too, since your sister's cooking is obviously not to your taste." Now her tone turns nasty. "She's going to be in charge of the cooking from here on out." First Blackwell, now your mom! You're getting it from every side! Except, of course, this isn't your mom. This is Chelsea, getting back at her brother for every mean or thoughtless thing he ever did to her! Next: "Teasing the Cats" |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
