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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Bondage Girl"  "Listen, I'll do it," you mutter at Sydney as you goggle with watering eyes at Amanda. "At least to start. Maybe after awhile we could switch off?" "If you want to, Will," she says, sounding doubtful. "You know, it's going to be a real change for you, going from being a— Well, never mind." But you know what she means. This isn't going to be like dressing up for Halloween, or putting on a skirt and high heels and a wig just for a laugh. (Not that you've ever dressed up as a girl before, even for a costume party.) This is going to be a fully-in-the-flesh transformation. When you come out the other side, you're going to have breasts, and a slit where your cock used to be. Everything else is going to be redistributed too. And you're going to have a girl's brain inside yours. It was weird enough plugging Blake's brain into yours. After all, he was a guy too, so everything he felt—the lusts, the pride, the impatience, the surging need to strut and preen and showboat, and to grasp a girl and show her with his mouth and his fingers and his straining penis just exactly what he thought of her and for what purposes— Well, Blake was just you with the dial turned up another twenty or twenty-five percent. But to become a girl— And in particular, to become this girl— "Will?" "Huh?" You jerk back into the moment. How long has Sydney been trying to get your attention? "Just making sure you haven't checked out on me. Uh, if you're going to, um, change places with her, won't she have to change places with you?" "Yeah?" Sydney gives you a very close look. "What I mean is, aren't we going to have to turn her into a copy of you?" "Yeah?" "Um ... So don't we have to make a mask of you, same as we're making a—?" "Oh! Right!" You blush at having been caught so flat-footed. * * * * * You had given Sydney all the mask material on hand last night, including both blank masks. It surprises you a little that she hadn't copied herself into one of them—she seemed all ready to take over the part of Amanda. But you lay out on the floor next to the bed and drop it onto your own face. You're not surprised that it knocks you out cold. Not that you feel anything, being knocked out cold and not being awake to have any kind of reaction, of course. But you are more than a little surprised when you wake to find a straw-headed kid staring down into your face. He has a crooked smile and eyes that easily twist into a kind of wince. He's hanging over the side of the bed with a sheet wrapped around him, exposing only his head, his neck and his bony, naked shoulders. His mouth twists into an impudent grin. "You know," he chortles, "I could'a, like, totally smothered you in your sleep. Taken your place. Become the new and improved you." "What the—?" You scramble back and away. "Chill out, man." He rolls his eyes. "'Cept I guess I'm the one who's s'posed to be taking orders from you." The only thing you can think to reply is, "Eep," but from somewhere else come the words you actually say aloud: "Where's Sydney?" "Locked herself in the bathroom. She told me she would if I didn't stop pestering her, and I didn't, so she did. Pft. Dumb of her. Like I said, if you hadn't woken up, I could'a taken your clothes and your keys off you and taken off in your truck. You should give me your clothes now though anyway, right?" "Ng'yum ..." Fortunately, just then a door opens and Sydney pokes her head in. "Will?" "Yeah?" you and your double reply. She makes a face. "Real Will." She glances between you. "You better not be trying some kind of thing, you know, pretending to be the pedisequos while he—" "Nah," your twin replies. "We were just getting changed. I just got through giving it my clothes. You done with Amanda's thing? 'Cos I'm all ready to put on her—" "Shut up," you say, and the thing closes its mouth with a grimace. "It's me, Sydney," you say, scrambling to your feet. "I just woke up." Her expression remains wary as she comes into the room. "Well, you should give it your clothes so we can get rid of it—" "Hey!" "And you can change in the bathroom if you want." She holds out a mask. "If you're going to be mean to me," the other Will Prescott starts to mutter. "I said, Be quiet." Then you cast a worried glance between the pedisequos and Sydney. "Um, it's supposed to be me," you remind her, "and we're going out together. Aren't we?" "Of course, Will. I'll be good to it, if that's what you're worried about. Well, good enough. I don't want you getting jealous of a thing that looks and acts just like you." Oh God, you hadn't thought of that! "Um, well, we should be getting you a, uh, a new identity too. Right?" "Sure, but let's not rush into anything right away. Except this." She presses the mask into your hand. "You asked for it, so quit stalling." Your heart does a somersault, and when Sydney tugs you toward the bathroom door, you almost fall over. Inside the bathroom, you listen for voices on the other side of the door. Sydney says something, and your twin replies, and then they talk over each other, but you can't make out any of the words. The voices briefly come close to the bathroom door, and you hear soft footfalls on the carpet. Then a door closes. You wait a moment, holding your breath. Nothing happens. It preys on you, though, the question of what Sydney will be doing with your doppelganger while you're being Amanda. Will she treat him better or worse than she treats you? It hardly seems possible that she'll treat him exactly the same—more likely she'll either go overboard with being affectionate, or will be a little cooler toward him, a little more impatient, a little more dismissive. You can't decide which direction you'd like to see her err toward. "Dude," your double says through the door, and he taps softly. "You getting undressed?" "Hang on." When you've got your stuff off, you pull the door open a few inches and hurl it through, and you've just time to see the other's astonished expression before you slam the door shut again. "Get dressed and go home," you bark. It mutters back something that sounds like, "Alright, alright, Jesus!" and you hear the bedroom door open and close again. You fall onto the toilet. You're still holding the mask, and you turn it over to regard the inner surface: AMANDA MATHERS FERGUSON. Funny middle name, you think. I wonder why they gave it to her. Then: Guess there's a quick way to find out. You drop onto the floor, prop your back against the wall, and push the mask onto your face. * * * * * You've got that "ice cream headache" again, and with a short grunt you knead your eye with a knuckle. Dammit, I've got to stop knocking myself out. Then, with a rush, it comes over you: I knocked myself out by putting Amanda Ferguson's mask on, which means I should be Amanda Ferguson now! And then the sequel thought as you look down: Yeep! You've a shelf where your chest was: a shelf of snowy white breasts. Bluish veins and pink undertones glow beneath and within them. Something catches in the back of your throat, like a stifled hiccup. You pull your knees up to your chin— And nothing down below gets in the way. A little drool cups in the bottom of your mouth. You grit your teeth, and with tentative fingers explore between your thigh. Your fingertips touch a patch of tightly curled hair, like wire. Your palm covers it, and presses it. It yields ... and there's nothing inside it. Your finger searches ... and it finds a slit. Oh my God! Your head falls back against the wall with a thump. I've got Amanda's body! You scramble to your feet, and feel hair tumbling to your shoulders. Amanda's surprised face stares back at you from the bathroom mirror. You gape. Then you remember who you're supposed to be, and close it with a snap. And that tiny snap is the rattling pebble that looses an avalanche. You reel as Amanda's memories—which were banked up someplace hidden—sluice into your head with a roar. You bow your head and grab the edge of the sink. A tap at the door, and Sydney's tired voice—"Will?"—lift you back up again. "Yes?" you call back. "Good, you're awake. Everything okay? Can you come out?" "In a minute, just let me—" But there's no clothes in the bathroom. They must be outside. With a sigh, you grab the door handle and wrench it open. Sydney falls back as you push into the bedroom. "Where's my things?" you ask. When she doesn't answer, you giver her a direct look. "Sydney." "On the bed," she stammers. "Um. Will?" "Yes." You scrutinize the clothes, where are nicely folded. She relaxes with a short sigh. "Good. You're sticking around, aren't you? To talk?" You should. But Amanda has friends waiting. Next: "The Old In and Out" |
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