The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Awkward Fire

Previously: "An Ill-Thought Break-Out" 

by rugal

You open up the bag you've stashed the mask and book in to get ready but immediately stop as you realize that yes, that is indeed too great a risk. Not just if she spots you before you get the mask on her face but if you even can get the mask on her face in the first place. She's a cop, seems to be reasonably young and from what you'd guess is in pretty good shape. Likely if she saw you you'd be face down and cuffed before you knew what was going on and can you imagine how bad it'd be if it was thought you were trying to attack a cop?

Besides, say you get the mask on her. She seems pretty attractive but what else is there? You don't know her name, you don't know what her schedule is, where she lives, you wouldn't have her uniform or car or anything. So you'd have a mask of a cop but with none of the benefits that'd come from actually being a cop.

So you wait and look around just to see if there's anyone who could give you trouble. Some kids about your age are playing basketball on the outdoor blacktop off at the other end of the playing fields, and a handful of girls are sprawled on the grass watching them. But otherwise the grounds are empty.

You pull out your phone and browse around, the reception being better up here than it was down in the basement, and watch some videos. You actually give yourself a little more than ten minutes as you finish up watching something, and when you get out to take another look around, you find the deputy's car is gone. The rest of the grounds have thinned out too— though those guys are still playing basketball, the girls appear to have wandered off.

You trot around to the basement but slow up on approaching it, for the door, you find, is open, and the yellow police tape is down and fluttering across the sill. You sidle inside and look in from the top of the interior stairs.

The first thing you notice is that the lights are on, adding their feeble glow to the daylight that pours in through the windows. The second thing you notice is the sound of an intruder searching the place: wood creaks and furniture scrapes as it slides across the concrete floor.

As quietly as you can, you creep down the steps and peer around the corner of a book case. The intruder—the same one you dodged earlier?—has their back to you, and is looking through some cardboard boxes. Your heart pounds when you recognize those boxes as the ones you put your stuff in.

So, on the one hand you're relieved to see that it wasn't confiscated by the cops. But just as alarming is the sight of this other person rummaging through it.

You drop your bag to the ground as quietly as you can, reach inside, and pull out the mask. This isn't really how you'd wanted to use it. But it is an opportunity, and you're not running the same risk of being tasered and arrested. Besides, this person is going through your stuff, and you don't like it.

Slowly you sneak up behind them, but they are so engrossed in looking through your stuff that they don't notice. As soon as you're directly behind them, you tighten your grip on the blank mask and quickly swing your arm, hooking it in front of the intruder and getting the mask on their face. They go limp, and you catch and lower them to the ground. A phone clatters to the concrete floor.

When you turn her over, you find that the intruder is a girl.

* * * * *

"Sarah, what the hell are you doing down here?" It's a shrill, girlish voice calling from the top of the basement stairs. "We were looking all over for you!"

"Sorry," calls back the girl you caught with the mask. Her reply is a slurred. "I saw this yellow tape across the door and got kind of curious."

You're listening from inside your "hideout," into which you retreated after getting the mask off the girl. Your original plan was to bug out back to your truck, but those girls you saw earlier were standing out by the street, and you didn't want them to spot you coming out of the basement. And it's a good thing you had that hiding spot to retreat into, because a minute later your victim's cell phone went off, and now this other girl has come in to look for her.

"Are you alright?" the new girl asks. "You look ... "

"Yeah I'm okay," answers her friend, though her voice lacks confidence. "I just feel a bit ... lightheaded is all."

"Well, it's all dusty and stuffy and hot in here, so come on. Anyway, we're all leaving now. My mom'll be here in a couple of minutes to pick us up."

"What, why are we going? Are Shawn and the others done?"

"No, and it beats me how long they'll be. It's a dumb place to come practice anyway, clear on the other side of town. But my mom's got stuff to do up at the mall, and Leila and me are meeting Joanna and the others up there."

"What about Tracy?"

"She's got something to do at home. So are you coming?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry for making you worry about me."

"Psh, well, you're like more curious than a dozen cats, so I'm not surprised."

Caleb was right, you think as the girls tramp up the stairs and out the door. We have to find a new place to work. It's like an airport concourse down here.

But, as long as you are here ...

You scramble out to retrieve the container of sealant that you and Caleb made yesterday. Might as well make lemonade as long as I've got lemons, you tell yourself as you coat the inside of the mask. You'll have no more use for a copy of that girl than you did for that sheriff's deputy, but you've got it now, and you're curious as to whether you can even wear the mask of a girl.

And once you're done, you're all, like, Why not try it the fuck out?

* * * * *

You are stiff when you wake, and you have to pry your eyes open. The last thing you remember was a feeling like warm, golden honey pouring over your limbs and into your joints as you settled the mask onto your face. But now you are chilly, and hug yourself to keep the cold off.

And as you clasp yourself your arms brush across your chest. With an almost audible click, the memory of where you are and what you were doing slides into place.

You sit up and with a slim hand grab a fistful of soft, light brown hair. You tug it and yelp in a soft, feminine voice when you do. The hair itself is long, going down and down and stopping at just about... you gulp and pull your shirt up. You have breasts. Not the biggest but not the smallest either. You reach one of your hands and touch and pinch and squeeze and marvel at the sensation.

You let the shirt drop, unzip the front of your shorts and reach that same hand in and inside your boxers as well and marvel at the fact there's nothing. The dick you're used to grabbing is nowhere to be found. Instead there's just a bush and... well you actually decline on doing anything more, pull your hand out and zip your shorts back up.

While the girl was out you'd snooped through her phone and had gotten a few things including her name, Sarah White, just before her friend showed up. That was Sarah's hair that you grabbed. Those were her breasts and her crotch that her hand touched. It's thrilling for it seems almost taboo: that unlike the clothes you're wearing, clothes that to your surprise fit just well enough, this body you're wearing doesn't belong to you. It belongs to Sarah.

It's amazing and you can't help but to let out an excited laugh, the softness of which feels pleasant to your ears and which thrills you even more. In an excited stupor you walk up the stairs, not really sure what to do. Maybe to get some fresh air to make sure you're awake and not dreaming. You open the door and step out with a smile into the sunlight.

"Sarah?"

You're almost run over by the speaker. He's big and he's tall—almost two heads taller than you—and the sweat glistens on his taut, tanned torso. He pants to a stop in front of you, and two more guys, also shirtless, go jogging by. Behind him, a third shirtless guy comes jogging around the corner of the old school.

"I thought you said you were leaving, like, an hour ago?" the guy says. He looks you up and down, and the eyes almost start from his head. "And what the hell are you wearing?"

You freeze up. "Uh ... I ... I was going to leave but, uh, I spilled some soda on my clothes? And, I, uh, was just kind of embarrassed so I hid? In this basement? And there was... these clothes there so ... I changed? I just, um, I wasn't really thinking? I'm sorry?"

A vein throbs in the guy's temple. "Dammit Sarah!" he exclaims. "You have to talk to people when you're having problems instead of just going with whatever stupid idea—"

Another guy comes jogging up, but instead of passing he slows up and stops to catch his breath. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Keep running laps, Gregory," the other one snaps.

"This is my last quarter. Joe's already breaking into the cooler."

"I don't care if—"

"What lap are you on, old man?"

The other one wheels to glare at Gregory, who grins. "Race you back to the cars, Sarah," Gregory says, and sprints off. Another teenage guy appears around the corner, and bolts off after him like a dog after a hare.

"Where's your friends?" asks the guy they left behind.

"They ... went?" you stammer. "I wanted to stay behind?"

Your interlocutor gets a pinched look. "Were you planning to get a ride with Gregory? Because you know I have to go back up to the school after we leave here."

You gulp. It sounds like you're trapped into getting a ride with someone, whether you want to or not. But a ride to where? And how will you be able to get away?

Next: "Not the Girl He Thinks You Are" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 1)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)"