Chapter #37Stealing a Friend by: Seuzz   You are caught between a paralyzed, terrified indecision, and an almost thrashing urge to do something, anything.
You give in to the latter.
Last night you had the idea of talking to the real Will Prescott—the guy whose soul (you assume) is now in your body. But then you asked yourself, Why hasn't he called me? He has your phone, and he has Mrs. Welch's number (or can find it). If all this was an accident (and it feels like it was), why hasn't he called to talk to you about fixing it? Did something go wrong on his end? Or is there some plot or other he's got going, now that he's in your body?
You need a friend to talk things over with, and lunge for the first obvious choice: Your best friend Owen.
* * * * *
Mr. Welch has an early class at the university, but you will need to leave for school before he does. You get through breakfast with him somehow by putting on your best imitation of Will Prescott, then drive off as soon as you decently can. But you don't drive up to Westside. Instead you pull over and call the school to tell them that you are ill and will have to take the morning off, at least. You kill a little more time, until you are sure that Will's friend has left for the university, then return to the Welches's.
Using Prescott's memories, you are able to craft another one of those metal doohickeys using the latest spell, then take it and the necessary tools up to a coffee shop, where you spend the balance of the morning carving the runes into it. That done, you text Mr. Welch to find out where he is—he's still at the office, he tells you—then make the dash home to return what you borrowed. Then, finally, it's up to the school.
You get there in time for lunch, which gives you a chance to pull Barbara Meek, one of the office secretaries, aside. You are jittery as you approach her, for you know that despite appearances she is another one of the things that Prescott and his friend made, and that creeps you out. You are also scared that it will somehow be able to pierce your triple disguise, and know that you are not Will Prescott disguised as Shannon Welch, but are Oliver Kelly inhabiting the body of Will Prescott, disguised as Shannon Welch, and are therefore an imposter and possibly an enemy. But Ms. Meek's duplicate greets you with the same smiling deference as it greeted her boss, and cheerfully answers the questions you put to it.
No, she hasn't heard anything from Oliver Kelly. No, there didn't seem anything wrong with him when he left, except that he seemed a little confused. Of course she can arrange to bring Owen Smith of the freshman class into the office, as she did with Oliver yesterday.
You are still left feeling ill at the thought of what you are going to do. But your deepest fear is that your jumpiness will somehow mess things up.
* * * * *
The moment with Owen comes sooner than you could prepare yourself for.
He's waiting in the same conference room as you waited in yesterday, and when you walk in the door it gives you a bad jolt that he only looks at you with a dim, puzzled curiosity. This is your best friend, and he's looking at you like you're a stranger. Almost you blurt out, "Bruh, it's me, don't you know me?" and it makes you sick to think that you can't. You are loathsomely aware of your feigned body—boobs and thighs and hips and all—as you stagger across the room toward him. Your mouth is dry, and you can think of no words to say to him.
Probably you have some ghastly expression on your face, for he shrinks back in alarm before you are halfway to him. You break into a run, covering the last few yards almost at a sprint and are upon him before he can bolt from his seat. That metal strip is in your hand, but your palm is slick with sweat, and you almost drop it. As it is, you have grab his head with both your hands, and you hear yourself whimper as you slide and push the strip over his face to his forehead. He wriggles and flails, and then goes boneless.
You are suddenly overwhelmed with disgust at the touch of his skin, and flinch back. He falls face forward, hitting the desk, and is very still.
You stare down at him. And then you begin to shake hard.
* * * * *
They were dreadful, the ten minutes you waited for the thing-um to do its business on Owen, giving you time to feel sick, remorseful, angry and a couple of other emotions so mixed up with the others that you're not sure what they were. At one point you felt yourself on the verge of bursting into tears, and it was with supreme effort that you fought back the fear and horror behind them. You huddled on the far side of the conference room, shrinking as far from the body of your friend as possible. But periodically you had to advance to check for the metal whatsits. Finally, you turned his head to rest on the side of his face, so that you can see it when it appears. When it finally did, you hopped forward, picked it up gingerly as though it was a turd, and bolted from the room. You were again shaking hard as you scurried through the outer office, not even pausing as you passed Ms. Meek, but only giving her the quickest nod as she looked up.
You felt dreadful when you got back to Mrs. Welch's cubicle, and you must have looked it, for when you told Mrs. Johnson that you were suffering a recurrence of this morning's illness, she clucked sympathetically and told you to go home before you could even ask. You didn't waste time packing up, and were out the door and on your way home without even bothering to double-check that you had everything.
Mr. Welch wasn't home (nor was he likely to be, before four o'clock) when you got there, which gave you time to go upstairs and recover your wits. You peeled off the tight and uncomfortable clothes that Shannon Welch has to wear at the office, and on an impulse took a shower to restore some of your senses. It actually worked wonders on you, and you spent a very long time under the hot water, rubbing and squeezing your soft body, and holding and fingering your boobs. This isn't bad, you told yourself. This is pretty great, actually. The only problem is that it's the body of woman losing her shape, and that's not much of a problem, at least not yet, really. No, the real problem (you reflect) is that you've got her brain inside yours, and it keeps fighting like a cat in a sack to get out, and it keeps knocking you sideways. It's an unhappy mind, too, that Shannon Welch has, one preoccupied with the fears of growing older, and growing apart from a man she no longer loves, stuck in a job she doesn't really like. If you could just get away from that ...
After you shower, you stand naked in front of the mirror to drink in her body while pushing her personality and memories as far back as you can. Shannon is a small woman with good but not huge tits (which are starting to droop) and a bit of a belly but with a good curve to connect her bust to her hips. You are naturally shy and awkward around girls, but you are fascinated and aroused by them too, of course, and the longer you stare at this body, the hornier you get. You cradle your boobs under one forearm, and lightly trace the shape of your face, and mouth and throat with the fingertips of your other hand. You feel your loins loosen and squirm.
Oh God, you hear yourself murmuring, as you tilt your head back and study your reflection from under hooded eyes. I could fuck you, Mrs. Welch. I really could. You drop your hand to your bush and feel for the slit within.
But you can't bring yourself to a full arousal, for the memory of Stephan Welch's cock rears itself. It can't fully kill the mood you've put yourself in, but with a sigh you bring yourself back down.
Still, it was a good exercise, calming you and centering you. You can think more clearly now.
So when you leave the bathroom, you put on one of Stephan Welch's t-shirts and a pair of his shorts before laying yourself out on the bed and removing Shannon's mask.
* * * * *
"I'm upstairs!" you shout in answer to the call from downstairs. There's a dead silence in reply, then the sound of feet on the stairs.
"Jesus," Stephan Welch says with a sneer when he comes into the bedroom. "I'm glad I didn't bring the department chair home, and have to explain why there's a half-naked teenage boy in my bed."
You look up from the phone you've been goofing off with, and flip him off, the way Will would. You spent the balance of the afternoon worming yourself deeper into his personality, so that you could play him naturally. That's one reason you took off Shannon's mask—so she wouldn't distract and confuse you. But the more important reason—
"Get out of your clothes and take that mask off," you tell Will's friend. "I'll give you some privacy." You bounce off the bed.
"What? Why?"
"'Cos I want to talk to you, I don't want to talk to this jerk-off." You point to his face. "I fucking hate talking to you when we're being that couple. It fucks me up in the head."
Stephan Welch stares at you, then shrugs and takes off his glasses. You leave him for five minutes, alone.
Caleb Johansson is sprawled on the bed when you sneak back in. Your lips twitch as you slap the dingus with Owen's name onto his forehead.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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