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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Mother of All Impersonations"  She starts as a very slow and cold rub-down, with ointments and creams that smell of alcohol and herbs. All across your upper back she rubs, kneading your shoulders and neck and upper arms. "You have such lovely skin, Elijah," she observes. "We're going to have to keep it clean and lovely. It would be a shame if you got any zits." Slowly she works her way down the valley of your backbone, and you flinch a few times when she hits a ticklish spot. Otherwise you keep very still, with your eyes closed and your limbs limp, as her hands move closer and closer to your butt. Before she reaches it, though, she leapfrogs it, dropping all the way to your feet. After giving the soles a quick massage, she moves up your calves, squeezing and caressing them. Then it's on to the back of your thighs, which is where she slows down. One at a time, using both hands, she works them up and down, pushing the heels of her hands into your flesh. "Soccer's been good for you," she observes. "You inherited your father's legs anyway, but all the running— Have you been working out on any weight machines?" "We don't have any," you remind her. "I mean at school. But maybe we should get some of our own. There's the spare room at the end of the hall that's going to rot." She lets out a trembling sigh. "You have so much potential, Elijah. And you're already unlocking it. With some concentrated work— And you're likely old enough now, you know. It makes sense. Erm." She lets out a small cough. You say nothing. You still say nothing when she lays her open palms on your buttocks. She holds them there for only a moment. Then she says, crisply, "Turn over, please." For a fraction of a second you hesitate. Then you flop over. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, and she holds your eye with a very cool and appraising expression. You return it with an unwavering one of your own. For a count of one ... two ... four ... seven ... no one moves or speaks. Then with a soft grunt, she rises off the bed to pick up a different bottle off your dresser. "You haven't been having any, erm, nightly misadventures, have you?" she asks as she settles back in place beside you. She squirts a heap of creamy lotion into the palm of one hand, sets the bottle aside, and rubs her palms together. Her eyes still locked carefully onto your face, she lays her palms onto your smooth chest and begins to rub. Well, she's the one who brought it up, you think. And it's not like I'm talking to Elijah's real mom. "Yes." "Yes, you have been having—?" "Yes," you repeat. She doesn't blink or flinch. "I see. And—?" "That's where my underwear's been going. Remember, you asked me what was happening to it?" Her eyes open fractionally. "Oh. I see. Really. You've been—?" "Rinsing them out and throwing them away." The tiniest frown appears on her lips. "You could have told me. There's ways to—" "No I couldn't." She pauses, then resumes her rubdown of your chest. "No, I suppose you couldn't. Too embarrassing. But now—" "I'm taking care of it. I've started using a sock." "A sock?" Her brow creases. "Don't Alec and Eric use a sock?" "For?" "Jerking off into." "Oh. Well—" "That's what I'm using. That way it happens when I want it to. Not when ... it wants to go off." "Oh, I see." She squirts some more lotion into her hands, then picks up one of your arms and begins vigorously massaging it into the bicep. "Well, as long as you're— Oh, but it doesn't matter now, does it?" "Why not?" "Because the test we ran. With Blake. Remember, we—" You pull away and turn over, feeling for the spot under the mattress where you shoved the sock last night. When you pull it out, it's as clean and white as when you pulled it from the drawer. She sniffs it, and declares it has no odor. For some reason, you feel crushed. The thought of the stuff melting like snow, after it erupted with such a volcanic fury, is oddly disheartening. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You pay no attention to your mother any more, and she doesn't speak any more either as she massages the front of your thighs. Nor do you speak—you only bore concentrated holes in the ceiling with your gaze—when she grasps your ... things ... and, with a skill that suggests long experience, raises the tower like a rocket gantry and helps you to a quick and powerful lift off. * * * * * Your dad comes looking for you right after he gets home from work, and he finds you sitting up in bed, in your pajamas with a warm robe wrapped around you, sipping a hot cocoa and doing an online Sudoku puzzle on your phone. "How are you doing, kiddo?" he asks. Well, aside from being irritated and annoyed from being bored all day, you're doing fine. "Fever seems down," he says after feeling your forehead. "Think you'll be a hundred percent by tomorrow?" "I hope so." He glances at your desk. "Your mom pick up your homework from school?" You nod. "Well, if you feel like getting dressed, your mom has a clam chowder that's just about ready to eat." He tousles your hair. "I know, it sucks being sick." You run your hand over your hair after he's gone, and toss your phone away. If you have to keep on pretending to be sick for the rest of the night, just because Sydney— The morning rubdown was the climax of the day, but it wasn't the only activity. She got you out of bed and dug out Carolyn Cabot's old cameras and equipment (she went through a "photography" phase a few years ago) to take some portraits of you. She had you change in and out of various costumes. Your church clothes; your soccer uniform; a pair of tight running shorts and a sweat shirt; a track suit; track pants and a muscle shirt; khakis, a polo shirt, and a sweater with the arms tied about your shoulders. She put you in various poses. Leaning insolently in doorways. Lounging on the sofas. Standing behind the desk in your father's study. Sitting behind the wheel of her SUV, in a pair of aviator sunglasses. With a toothpick in your mouth. A book in your hand. A cell phone held out as you were taking a selfie. She doesn't explain any of it, and you don't ask. Nor do you complain, though it leaves you feeling like a pampered dog being dressed up by its childless owner. You're tired of your "sick room," so when your phone dings with a text from your dad—Soup's on!—you throw off the covers, dig a pair of fluffy slippers out of your closet, and head downstairs. But you're intercepted by your mother, who has a bowl in her hand. "Take it upstairs," she tells you. "I feel fine. I want to eat—" "Don't argue, just humor me. I'll come get you when I'm ready." "Ready for what?" "When I'm ready for you." She pushes the bowl at you, and with a sigh you take it and return to your room. * * * * * She shakes her head at you when she comes upstairs to take your empty bowl, and tells you that if you're bored you can get an early start on your homework. You've lost almost all patience—with her, with the situation, and with your pre-algebra—when at last there's a firm knock at the door. "We're ready for you," she declares after sweeping the door open. You suck on a tooth, then decide against saying anything cutting. Let her have her fun, you think. She stands aside as you march past, then with a word directs you away from the stairs and toward the master bedroom. You hesitate in front of it, and raise your hand to knock. "Go right in," your mother says. You give her a long look, then twist the knob. Your dad is lying on the bed, on his back. He has been stripped of all his clothes, and he is staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Your mom steals up behind you and grips your shoulders with both hands. "He's ready for you," she hisses in your ear as she tugs the robe off you. "Ready for you to take your father's place in my bed!" * * * * * You wake to the pleasant tingle of fingertips pressing into the arch of your instep. You grunt and grin and shift on the bed. Sex is supposed to relieve stress, but a foot massage (you've found) works even better. And it also works you up to a better performance in bed. You lift your head to peer down over your wispy chest hair at Carolyn, who has both her hands cupped about your left foot as she pushes her thumb into the sole. "I think I fell asleep," you tell her with a smile. "And then you woke me up with—" There's an odd expression on her face. One you don't like, so you stop with a frown. There's a hard gleam in her eye, and a hungry cast to her mouth. It would be a turn on—my Carolyn, hot to gobble me down—but there's a light behind it that gives you a chill. Ready for you to take your father's place in my bed! The words return to you, like an echo inside your skull. With a yelp, you come halfway off the bed, then fall back with a haggard sigh. "Are you okay?" your wife asks in a low, thrilling voice. But there's poison inside it. You rub your face and pinch your eyes closed. Memories—great blocks of memories; slabs of memories; memorials and cathedrals of memories—slam and lock together into new shapes. A ripple runs down your spine, concentrates in your lower back, and lifts your hips from the mattress. Your cock—a fat, heavy thing—swells and rises. Next: "The Man of the House" |
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