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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Junior Menu"  Luke doesn't bring you to any kind of climax, he just leaves you panting and groaning and twitching while he hobbles off to spend himself into some bushes. It leaves you digging the heel of your hand into your eye and wondering—with Annabelle's regret and your own relief—why you don't just start going all the way with him. He at least gets to get it off when you get together. You're left with an unreachable itch. You know the answer, of course. Although Annabelle would trust Luke not to dump her after he's had his fun, she wouldn't trust him to be careful on his end as he should be, which would leave her needing to be as careful as she can on hers. And the last thing Annabelle wants to do is go on birth control, with or without her parents' knowledge. Although if you got her pregnant (accidentally!), then slipped into another identity, leaving one of those magical robots to take Annabelle's place— These thoughts are interrupted by Luke's return. He's still out of his shirt and his jeans are hanging off the tops of his hips, exposing the hemline of his briefs—loudly emblazoned with the HANES logo—to the world. "Mmm, hey," he murmurs as he leans over you. You reach up to clasp him about the neck. "Was it fun for you too?" "Phfft! Fun for you!" you grumble. "Me I'm still—" You twist your hips and kick your feet into the air. "Love me some more." "I can't, I'm all—" "You don't need to cum again, Luke!" you retort. "Just do what you were doing before, and—" You raise up to bite him in the mouth. A jolt runs through his frame, but he kisses you back, and while you've got him pulled down you squeeze in under him and wrap your powerful thighs around his hips. You rock and push and thrust at him, and eventually he reciprocates. And yet, somehow, it isn't nearly as exciting as before, when you knew you were bringing him to climax. "Ungh!" You break off and push him back. "God, I'm sweating like a pig! How can you stand me when I'm so disgusting?" "You're not disgusting, you're sexy." He leers. "I like a girl who—" You sit up on the edge of the hood and wrap your legs back around him again. But instead of pulling him down, you pull his naked chest to your naked chest, and cradle your face in the crook of his neck. "Luke," you whine as he clasps you around the shoulders. "Do you love me?" "Sure I do, babe. I—" "So can't you try it again? With your tongue?" * * * * * He doesn't. It's the one sore spot in the relationship. Luke gags when he gets his nose down anywhere close to Annabelle's cooch. You don't make a big deal of it, but you do close down the makeout session by telling him you have to get home. Luke acts like a whipped cur. You have no idea what you look or smell like—and you had to stop Luke again from lighting a joint on the way home—so you hustle through the living room to your bedroom when you get home, then into the bathroom after dropping your backpack off. You peel off your clothes and dump them in the hamper, then dive into a hot, soapy shower. Desire faded and winked out on the ride home, so you're all business as you scrub down and wash your hair so you won't have to deal with it in the morning. Once out, you change into a short robe and return to your bedroom to tackle the last of your homework. It takes you a lot longer to finish than you'd like, mostly because you are fielding texts from Heather and Veronica asking what the hell Chelsea Cooper wanted to talk to you about. You cuss Annabelle under your breath as you try swatting them away: Why did you have to tell them you were going to meet Chelsea? But that's another question you know the answer to. Although Annabelle pretends (even to herself) that she feels only contempt for "popular" girls—meaning girls who only chase popularity—there's no denying she felt excitement, and even a little preening pride, at having been noticed by the captain of the cheerleader squad and invited to a one-on-one conference about something or other. So she had to brag to her friends ahead of time, and now here you are having to deal with the aftermath. It does no good telling them that Chelsea's ideas were stupid, not when you have to tell them what the ideas were, and then have them insist that the ideas are actually pretty good and really are worth pursuing. You are rescued, sort of, by your mom, who looks in on you at a little before ten. "Didn't you finish your homework when you were out with your friends?" she asks. For that was the story Annabelle gave her: that she was going off to study with Heather and some others. (In fact, she had worked hard up at the school after classes let out, to get as much done ahead of time so she could spend the balance of the evening with Luke.) "Uh, there's a few Spanish exercises I forgot," you improvise. "In fact—" You turn off your phone and hold it out to her. "Can you take this away and give it back to me in the morning? I got people texting me and distracting me." Your mom's lips disappear. "You should have the discipline to ignore them," she says. But then, with a smile, she takes it from you. "Yeah, alright. Anyway, I just looked in to tell you that your dad and I are going out tomorrow night, but we still expect you back by your curfew." "Yes ma'am." She wishes you goodnight, kisses you on the forehead, and departs. You quickly finish your homework. * * * * * Later, in bed, as you stare up at the dark ceiling: What the fuck is wrong with me? you ask yourself. Your fingers are exploring the flair of hair down where your thighs meet, tugging and twisting the strands between index finger and thumb while the rest of your fingers stroke the flesh below. You're not chiding yourself for this invasion of Annabelle's privacy, for you are Annabelle now. Anyway, she does this to herself, and more, almost every night. Nor are you wondering why you're not getting a rise out of yourself, because you keep bumping into an image—the warm, solid, breathing image—of Luke Romero. And that, in contrast to the evening, is a buzz-kill. No, what you're wondering about is how hard and heedlessly you fell into his embrace and opened yourself to his mouth. It was like instinct—you suppose it was instinct, Annabelle's instinct—but you didn't fight it, you hardly registered it was happening, and once it was happening you bobbed along on Annabelle's passions without even thinking it was something that could be fought and resisted. Only now, alone in the quiet and the dark does it occur to you that you didn't have to go along with it. But even that isn't what worries you, not most deeply. Now that you have some distance, you feel certain you can rein and steer those instincts if you have to. You're not their slave. No, the trouble is that you have to acknowledge that you enjoyed those instincts, and where they took you. Even with the distance you think you now have, you aren't sure you wouldn't choose to indulge them again. In fact, as you anticipate the morning, imagining band practice and Luke waiting for you in the practice room— Mmmm! You are suddenly warm, and a light, pleasant sweat breaks out over you. The memory of Luke, and of your naked body open and exposed to him, isn't the kill-joy it was a moment ago. In fact, now it might even be a turn on. What the fuck is wrong with me? you ask yourself as you grope deeper and harder at yourself while pretending it's Luke doing it to you. Nothing that I could give two fucks about ... * * * * * It's a cool morning with lots of clouds to fight the sunshine. You wore shorts to school again, but also a jacket, which you peel off in the band practice room while holding Luke's eye. You are wearing the camouflage halter top underneath: the one that's a secret message from Annabelle to Luke, telling him that she wants to see some "action" from him at some point during the day. He licks his lips, and lust gleams in his eye. That will be pleasure, and it will have to come later, for there's some work for you to do: getting yourself a partner down in the junior class. You were undecided about who to pick when you went to bed last night, but now you've narrowed it down to five "alpha girls" whom Annabelle quietly despises. The first is Stacy Stahl, a cheerleader wannabe and someone (from your joint perspective with Annabelle) who is setting herself up to be another Chelsea: bossy and tyrannical and exclusive. She's even got herself a "Gordon Black" of her own, in the form of Jason Rowe, the JV football quarterback. The second is Peyton Morrow, who you suppose would be the "Cindy Vredenburg"—the slightly hapless rival—to Stacy's Chelsea. Annabelle thinks of her as a "fashion victim," and feels sorry for Paris, Peyton's twin sister, who seems a lot more serious and grounded. Christine Miles is dating the junior class president, and she's a preening snob. Again, if you're going to compare her to someone in the senior class, it would be Kelsey Blankenship. Naomi Batson is someone Deanna suggested to you for an alias, and you're glad you didn't pick her. She's a snob like Christine, but an earnest, do-gooder snob who wants to run other people's lives because she thinks she's better than them. Last is Alexis Lachance, who is rich and who surrounds herself with a collection of gorgeous boyfriends and girlfriends. From the way you've heard your other candidates talk about her, they would all like to be her. That's all for now. |
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