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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Woes at the Warehouse"  You have to rub your eyes to confirm what the text says. Spend night w me, we'll talk. You hesitate, then reply: What abt ur mom? She's spending nite w boyfriend. Just me here. You chew on this. It's already past your curfew, so would things go so much worse if you stayed out all night? On the other hand, tomorrow is Sunday, and if you miss church there will be hell to pay. Fuck it, you decide. How often will I get a chance to spend the night with Andrea Varnsworth? Though the answer, technically, is Lots of chances now, brah! you relax into the flood of excited glee Sydney's invitation has aroused in you. "Turn here," you order Kirkham, and further instructions steer the car back to Andrea's. He doesn't say anything until you tell him to pull over. "So, this's your place?" he asks as he eyeballs the house. "No, it's Andrea Varnsworth's." "You're shitting me." "Nope. I'll see you at school Monday." You start to get out, but the pedisequos grabs your arm. "Do I get to come in?" he asks. "No." "Come on, boss!" he pleads. "No." Kirkham mutters something under his breath, but releases you. More audibly, before you slam the door shut, he says, "Some motherfuckers get all the breaks." The porch light is out, but it snaps on and the front door opens as you bound up the steps. Andrea's gaze as she lets you in is hooded as ever, but there is a gleam in her eye. "Hey," she says in her low, throaty voice. "How was the Warehouse?" "It sucked. How was the school play?" "It sucked." After a pause, she adds, "And after the play was worse, I had to go out to Charles's with everyone. I just now got away." "I just now got away from the Warehouse." You study each other. She is dressed in slim, tight jeans, but is barefoot, and is wearing a black, sleeveless gym top that tightly hugs her swelling breasts. I can't believe this is my girlfriend, you think. You step toward her, and she hops forward to meet you. You embrace, rubbing hands over each other's backs, and gently pecking at each other's lips. "Will," she murmurs when you part mouths enough to let her speak. "Are you going to spend the night with me?" "I have to. Unless you give me a ride home." You feel her lips curl into a smile. "No chance of that." She kisses you again. "While I've got you here." She hooks her elbow around the back of your neck and pulls you in tight for a hard, hungry kiss. * * * * * Spending the night with Andrea turns out to be quite a bit different from the romp you had this afternoon. She insists on preparing for bed first, by washing her face and brushing her teeth, and she invites you to do the same—except with your forefinger instead of a toothbrush; "I like you, Will," she says, "but sharing toothbrushes is icky"—while she changes into skimpy shorts and a filmy, sleeveless top that hangs down only far enough to cover her nipples. She also insists that you get into a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms before she'll let you into bed with her. You argue about the pajama bottoms—"What is this, a slumber party?"—until she tells you that they are her pajama bottoms, and then you can hardly wait to pull them on. Then, after putting out the lights, you both bounce into bed and pull the sheets up around before you resume embracing and smooching. She's a lot slower to yield to you, and keeps her knees locked together while mewling that she wants to "cuddle and pet" before getting down to business, and a couple of times you feel yourself starting to drift off even as you have your teeth dug into the side of her throat. Maybe it's because she senses that she could lose you to the Sandman, but she finally gives in and helps you pull off the pajama bottoms, and rolls onto her back so you can mount her. It feels more intimate this time around, more like "making love" and less like "fucking," maybe because it's dark and you're under the covers, or maybe because you spent so much time working up to it. But the climax, when it comes, is no less explosive, but it also comes with a sweet aftermath: a sense not of expending yourself into Andrea, but of being united and bound with her. You feel as though your minds and souls, and not just your bodies, have touched. The rush and release exhaust you, and after Andrea has pushed you off you must have instantly drifted off, because when you are next aware of anything it's when you wake to find Andrea, one hand braced against your shoulder, straddling you and using her free hand to guide your erect cock into her. You rouse yourself to help, and are rewarded with a bed-quaking climax that ends with Andrea crumpling forward and falling asleep atop you (and with you inside her) with her mouth and nose buried in the pillow beside your ear. You embrace her from below, and close your eyes— —to wake again briefly as Andrea crawls off to settle in beside you with her arm draped over your chest. You turn onto your side to face her, and her warm breath mingles with yours. You lay awake like this for awhile, listening to the gentle rustle of her breath, wanting but not daring to wake her with kisses and caresses, until you again drift off. * * * * * You're woken by a chiming alarm, and with a grunt and groan fumble about to find it, bumping up against Andrea, who has been similarly roused. She finds the phone first and turns it off before falling back onto the pillows. She peers up at you as you peer down at her. "G'morning," she murmurs. "Good morning," you murmur back. "Mmm." She puts her palm to the back of your head and pulls you down to touch your lips to hers, briefly. "Wanna fuck around some more?" she asks. "We got all morning." "What if your mom comes back?" "She probably won't. But she won't mind. I think she thinks I'm undersexed, she'd think you're good for me. Also, you're not a jockstrap or anything, so that'd be another point in your favor." "She doesn't like jockstraps?" "I dunno. I think she'd like you 'cos you're, like, normal. Just a guy." She blinks at you. "I get too many weirdos over here, like Charles." "I don't really know you, Andrea." You lightly accent the name. And she titters. "I know," she says. "Isn't it great? I just gave myself up to you. I don't ever give myself up to a guy. They all hit on me, but I ignore them. But you, I just said, Come over and give me a good fuck, and it happened." She titters again. "Why'd you do it, Andrea?" you ask. Her mouth curls up into a smile as she closes her eyes and relaxes. "I dunno," she says. "I guess I just saw something"—she giggles—"magical in you." You kiss her forehead. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see the phone, and the time. * * * * * Sydney doesn't want to take you home, but you insist. And after she's up, she agrees that it's probably for the best: If she is now Andrea, she should keep to Andrea's schedule, which means going for her daily swim. So even after you are dressed, you have to wait for her to pull on a black, form-fitting Lycra swimsuit, and to cover it with blue shorts and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. She glints at you mischievously—for you are sporting an obvious boner—as she slides on some sunglasses and beckons you out the door. Your dad only glowers at you hard when you fall in through the front door of your place, but you can tell you are in serious trouble because Robert stares at you with wide eyes and a pale face, as though you are already a corpse awaiting burial. Your dad interrupts your explanations by ordering you upstairs to shower and change into your church clothes. Your mom looks haggard when she bumps into you in the hallway. Church is even more awful than usual, because you can only replay last night's fun in your head while dreading what will come after the service. The drive home afterward is utterly silent, and once home your dad only orders you upstairs to change, and then to wait for him in his study. He gives you a good ten minutes to anticipate all the ways that he is going to destroy your life, but he is very calm when he finally joins you, and asks you for an explanation. You tell him that you couldn't get a ride home from the party (as you'd warned him might happen) and wound up spending the night there. When he asks where the party was, you tell him it was at the house of a guy named David Kirkham, because you know you can get the pedisequos to cover for you. When he asks why you didn't text him for a ride, you are cornered into having to beg that you hadn't thought of that. He snorts hard at that. There follows a very short lecture on how badly you scared your mom, and that something like last night must never happen again. He ends by telling you that you're grounded through next Sunday. Then he dismisses you for lunch. At least he leaves you with your phone, so you text Sydney afterward to tell her what happened. She calls you direct, and laughs that it doesn't matter. "You can always just switch places with someone, Will," she says. "Let your double take the punishment." Then her tone turns mischievous. "Who do you want to be? One of your other faces? Or someone new?" Next: "Shopping for a Shift" |
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