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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "That Kind of Girlfriend"  "Can we get Alana tonight?" you ask Sydney. "Sure, why not? It's a Friday night, her and Marcos prob'ly got plans." You glance over at Marcos, who is slumping in Kirkham's car with his phone out and his feet up on the dash. "Well, maybe you better make sure of that," you tell Sydney. "Because— Well, I thought Marcos already had a girlfriend." You wrack your brain for a name. "Cristina Ramon?" "I guess they broke up. Well, I'll go talk to the fucker." Kirkham saunters off back to Kirkham's car and climbs in. It's while you're waiting and watching that the drive-in intercom buzzes and speaks, even though you never pressed a button. "Can we take an order from you?" "Ew, why would I want to do that?" you retort. "I'd rather eat dog vomit than any of the crap you sell here." You get no argument; you get no reply of any kind, in fact. Kirkham has thrown away the Frito pie and slid in a new toothpick when he returns to your side. "Well, I could make him," he sighs. "But Rivera tells me he's supposed to go out the Warehouse tonight with Cristina. I don't fully get what the situation is, but he says there'd be hell to pay if he doesn't. He can set something up with Alana tomorrow, though." "Tomorrow night?" You're supposed to help Kelsey set up for her weekly party then. "Anytime. Afternoon sounds like it'd be better." "Okay. Well, let me know." Sydney snorts softly. "You gonna answer your fucking phone if I call you?" You twist the key in the ignition. "Bite me, David." Before you can roll the window up, though, Sydney grabs at the door. "What are you doing tonight?" "Probably fighting with my boyfriend again." "'Cos I don't got plans. None I can't change." The toothpick rolls from one side of his mouth to the other. * * * * * His cock is a hard shaft up inside you, and you are screwed down tightly atop it. He doesn't shift and he doesn't thrust; and if you feel him pulsing, it might only be your imagination. But David Kirkham grips you tightly by the hips and stares up into your face. You have to bend your face over his, for there's hardly room in the back seat of his car for you to straighten up. Maybe that's why you're just sitting here, screwed into each other and breathing hotly and moistly onto each other's faces. But when he suggested the coupling, he suggested it as only a coupling. "No coitus, babe," he grunted as she helped you onto his lap. "We just hold it. Just hold it. As long as we—" He swallowed thickly. "We can." And why? "Got a theory." With a hooked finger, he helped you peel down your white hose. "You do it ... hold it ... don't do anything, just ... hold it." He unbuttoned the front of his jeans, and you felt rather than saw Kirkham's swelling penis rising like a rocket to a gantry. "Hold it in inside you. You just hold me inside you. And we hold it ... and hold it ... and hold it." His face when you brushed it with your palm was feverish, and His bangs when you pushed them back felt wet. "Not doing nothing, just straining to hold it. Then ... Well ... It'll happen without trying. Just cum all at once. Sudden. Instant." He kisses you between your breasts. "And I'll blow the top of your head off." "Where'd you get this idea?" "Shhh. Don't talk. Just concentrate ... on—" He gurgled in the back of her throat as you opened your legs and slid slowly and gently down onto him. "Ohhhh!" Now you are settled firmly onto him. Your mouths are open to each other, but you don't kiss, but breathe and pant heavily onto each other. He grips you by the hips, and with one hand you grip the back of his neck and with the other clutch a fistful of his hair. And you concentrate on his cock. It is fat. It is hard. And it is deep up inside you. It's like a chisel that's been tapped into a crack between two tightly pressed stones, and just by the force of its presence is wedging them apart. You feel yourself loosening, melting, dripping down him, and though you don't will them, slow-moving pulses tighten and relax around his shaft. You are hot and prickly all over, as from a jungle heat, and humidity seems to rise and swim about your head. Your hair feels limp, and if you touched it you would expect to find it sopping. Eventually, he says, "Unngghhh." "Coming?" you murmur. "Nnggh. Think I'm losing it. Can't hold onto it." "Don't." You grip his hair more tightly. "Cum. Push. Make me cum. God damn it, I want you to make me—" He rises, pushes, thrusts. You push back, driving yourself more deeply onto his spike. One, two, thr— Then there's a hanging moment, and he explodes up into you like artillery fire. Afterward, you kiss long and deeply, and then, though he keeps his clothes on, he peels your dress off you, rolls you off and onto the seat, and curls up to kiss and suckle at your breasts. It leaves you giggling, and you choose that moment to tell Sydney about your talk with Ricky in the library. But she's not interested, and when you're done she turns her face from your nipples just long enough to mutter, "Shut up, no one here is interested in Amanda's personal shit." But you giggle again. "Maybe after I'm wearing Alana's face, I'll try seducing Ricky. Oh, no, yick! Never mind, I just grossed myself out!" Sydney tells you again to shut up. All in all, a pretty nice night, and much less creepy than you were afraid it was going to be. After all, you were parked in a very dark spot in the middle of the Masonic cemetery—a place, Sydney said, where no one was very likely to stumble over you. * * * * * The next morning you go for an early run around the neighborhood, then back home you shower and change into fresh, soft sweat pants and hoodie. Then—as that ambitious little workaholic bitch does every Saturday morning—you settle into getting your homework done perfectly. Come Sunday night you'll review and correct it all again. Oh, but I'll be someone else then, you remind yourself, it'll be one of those pedi-whatsits doing Amanda's work. But still you do this morning's work now. It'll be a good excuse to dodge Ricky or anyone else if they call. Still, you can't help going online to see if there's any talk about you and David, or you and Ricky. To your surprise, there isn't any, which you wonder at. It's a little after noon before you get a call, but it's not from who were expecting. "Hey," Marcos Rivera says in a low voice when you pick up. "I got it set up with Alana. I'll be out at her place a little after one. You come by, and we'll take care of her then." "Did Sydney tell you to set this up?" you ask, feeling no little trepidation. There's a pause, then a short laugh. "It's me, Will," Marcos says. "I'm here now." Oh, for Christ's sake! "When did you do this? And why didn't you tell me?" "Because I did it at four o'clock this morning. That's when Marcos left the Warehouse and dropped Cristina off at home. I told him to meet me out in front of his house, and I did the switch there. Slept off the party and woke up a little while ago, all ready to deal with Alana an' shit." "Have you got the mask and stuff to do the—" "I got it under control, Will. Don't stress out on me. One o'clock, okay?" He gives you the address. "You're meeting me to pick up some stuff I got in the car for Kelsey's party. That's the story to get you in the door. Not that it matters, my little biscuit's not gonna argue, but that's the story if she asks. Later." So abruptly, he's gone. I'm gonna have to get me a personality that can deal with Sydney, you tell yourself as you put the phone back down. Then you remember that you're Amanda Ferguson. If she can't handle Sydney— You bite your lip. It must be Sydney herself, you decide. And me. She can just boss you around like no one's business. * * * * * Alana Ocampo lives in a crappy little apartment complex in the northwestern part of the city, just off the interstate. You look at it with no little loathing and fear as you park in front of her unit. Place is probably full of crack dealers and junkies, you think with a shudder. I hope she's used to it. You hurry as fast as you can from your car to her door without actually running. It seems like forever before there's a thump of footsteps in answer to your knock, and the door opens a crack. Marcos—his hair an uncombed tangle—blinks stupidly at you, then grins as he pulls the door wider. "Hey, Amanda!" he croaks. "You got here quick." "Quick as I could," you mutter as you squeeze past him. The living room, you find, is dinky and musty, but reasonably ordered. More so than Marcos, who besides his bedhead is shirtless and sockless and wearing only a tight pair of jeans. "Lemme just go tell Lana I gotta take care of this thing with you," he says, then blinks as he looks past you into the apartment. "Oh, hey, there she is," he says, and you turn to find a small girl peering at you around the corner of a doorway. "Hey, Lana, you know Amanda from school, right?" He pushes past you and pulls the girl out into the room. "This is my niña," he says as he catches her around the waist from behind and pulls her close. "Because she's a little thing"—he kisses the side of her head—"and she's a girl"—he kisses the other side of her head—"and she's my little girl." He squeezes her until she squeals. This is how you get your first good look at the girl you're about to become. Next: "Into and Out of Character" |
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