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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Bodies in Motion"  "Hey," you say to the skinny blonde kid when you open the front door to him. "Thanks for coming over." Will Prescott gives you a tight, nervous smile as he steps into the house. "They told me you might have some, uh, orders for me." "They? Who's they?" "Keith and them." He hunches. "The, uh, the fake Keith and the fake ... other guys." The wind seems to die in his throat. "Fake like me." You look him up and down. He doesn't look bad, though Andrea doesn't go out of her way to score and rank guys on their looks. But the jeans and suspenders and hat give him a confident and slightly rakish air without overdoing it, and the lack of stubby whiskers makes him look both younger and more mature. You find yourself wishing you'd had the insight and the courage to clean yourself up earlier, and without the help of your friends. "Don't call yourself a fake," you chide him. "Don't run yourself down. Have fun with it. You're having fun, aren't you? Getting attention, like from—" You brush his shoulder with a fingertip. "In Mrs. Gladstone's class. What did Caleb say? After I invited you out?" Your beta rolls his eyes. "He said if I didn't come out I was an idiot, and I'd be an even bigger idiot if I did come out." "Some friend." "Is there a plan here?" "Don't whine. There's a plan. You just have to go along with it, and play it cool. I'll do all the work." "Yeah?" "Mm-hmm. Well, Charles is going to do all the work, but I'll give it to him." "What work?" You settle your elbows on his shoulders and wrap your arms lightly around his neck. You are almost as tall as him, so it's no strain to pull your face close to his. "Don't worry," you breathe into his face. "You'll love it." * * * * * Your original plan was muss-free. It was to hide in the bedroom with your beta, behind a closed door, until Charles arrived; then you'd emerge to surprise him. But once you and him were stretched out on the bed, propped on your elbows and looking each other in the face, it seemed a better idea to at least take your clothes off, so that you wouldn't be able to emerge too soon, and so that you'd look plausibly disordered when you did so. You might even be pulling on clothes as you emerged, to help the illusion. But then, once you'd wriggled out of your clothes and he had his shirt and boots off, your beta couldn't help looking up and down your naked form, and you indulgently told him that he could touch you: "You'd like that, right?" He nodded and started to stroke your arm and the sides of your boobs, and you wriggled deeper into the bed and smiled at him as he caressed you up from the back of your jaw down to your bellybutton. Your body warmed much more quickly under the quick, unpredictable strokes of his fingers than it had last night, when you tried stroking yourself. "Down there," you told him, and seized and guided his hand down to your bush. "Go on, it won't bite," you assured him when he blushed. He slipped his fingers in and felt at your bush and at the slit hidden within it. "You can go farther than that," you gurgled as you spread your legs. He took the invitation farther than you intended, and it was a wonderful surprise when he threw himself over you, put his knee between your thighs, and put his face in your neck. You grasped him by the belt and tugged at his jeans. As his hot skin and hot breath slid over you, you gave up to curiosity and temptation, and unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down. A fleshy shaft popped out of the front of his boxers and touched you with its burning tip. I'm going to fuck myself, you told yourself, and could hardly believe the thought even as you repeated to yourself. I'm going to fuck myself. I'm going to let me—it is me, it looks like me, it smells like me, it acts like me, it knows me, and I can be it again if I want to— I'm going to let me fuck me. I'm going to know what it is like for the girl when I fuck her. The thought frightened you and abashed you, but you let the moment overwhelm you, like the breaking surf, and drag you under with quickening breath and blood. You clasped him about his narrow shoulders and held on as he kicked his jeans off, and you steadied him as he balance himself with one hand and with the other guided his cock—my cock, you reminded yourself in a dazed, wondering way—into you. You rose to meet him, accept him, and draw him deeper in. He came before you did, and your eyes were clenched shut as he cracked you open and spent himself in the deep crevices. But then you came under him when you opened your eyes and saw him staring into you with feverish eyes set in a burning face. He remained atop as you tried to pull him down, sagging on his elbows with his face in the pillow beside your head as you twisted your legs about his hips and tried pushing him deeper into you. When you sank at last back into the mattress, he followed. His skin burned all over inside your embrace. You were still clasping each other in this way when there was a sharp rap at the outside door. * * * * * Your heart nearly rockets out of your chest. "Oh, Jesus." Will raises his head. "Who's that?" "It's Charles. Oh, Jesus." "Charles? Here?" He gulps. "What do we do?" So lost are you in the post-coital that it takes you several long and arduous seconds to remember the plan. Even then, your breath comes in quick spasms. "It's okay," you gulp, "it's part of the plan. It is the plan. We— We wait for him to come in, like we're hoping he thinks there's no one home. Then we come out to see him." "What if he doesn't? Come in, I mean?" "Christ, he never doesn't come in." "Isn't the door locked?" "No." But actually you're not sure it isn't, not until you hear the scratch and creak from the outer room. "Drea?" Charles calls out in a drawl muffled by the walls. "Now we hold very still," you whisper in your beta's ear, "like we're hoping he comes in and looks around and leaves." "Drea?" Charles calls again, and his footsteps sound on the wooden floors outside. He walks into the hallway and stands before the bedroom door, which sends your heart racing, then walks away again. "He's going into the kitchen," you whisper to your beta. "He's going to look for me in the back yard, in the garden." "What if he leaves?" your beta asks. "Do we do it again?" "Don't be greedy. And you can get off now." You push, and he rolls off. The bedsprings squeak. "Quiet." "Don't we want him to hear us?" "We don't want to be gross about it. We have to play it like—" The back door bangs shut, and Charles's footfalls sound again inside the house. "I'm going out there," you whisper to your beta as you sit up. "After I'm out the door, count to, um, thirty. Then get up, get dressed, and follow me out too. Play it totally cool," you murmur as you fish your clothes from off the floor. "You've got nothing to be embarrassed about. I invited you over, we fucked, it's none of Charles's business. Remember that. And ignore him. Just talk to him to be polite." "No problem doing that," he mutters. "Then just hang loose. You've more business being over here than he does. I invited you over, I didn't invite him. But then we'll get some people to come out. It'll be like you came over to hang out, but just got here early. If anyone asks, that's what we tell them." "But won't Charles tell them—?" "Yes, and that's what I'm counting on. But don't worry. Just play it all cool." "Gotcha." You look up as you tuck yourself into your bra. The worry is draining from his face, leaving a confident calm. You wonder at that as you pick up your t-shirt. I can order him to do things. Can I also order him to be a certain way? To have a certain personality? Music starts to play on the living room stereo as you snap a pair of shorts on. You motion your beta to be quiet as you open bedroom door. Charles looks up from the futon as you walk into the living room. "There you are," he drawls. "Did I wake you up or something?" "Something." "I told you I was coming over," he calls after as you duck into the bathroom. "I'm looking for sympathy, Drea," he shouts as you close the door. "You don't have to say anything, I just want you to be here for me!" You drench some toilet paper in water and wipe yourself out inside your shorts and panties, then rub yourself dry with a washcloth. You finish up quickly, for you want to be there to see Charles's face when— The bedroom door opens, and your beta comes out. He's in jeans, socks, and t-shirt when he emerges; the suspenders hang down past his knees, and he's carrying boots, hat, and denim shirt. Charles does a double-take at him, then adds a triple-take when he sees how he's (un)dressed. Or maybe it's on account of recognizing who it is. "You want something to drink?" you ask Will. "Uh— Water, I guess?" "You can have a beer." You step back into the kitchen without offering Charles anything. Will is sitting at your mom's computer desk, tying his hiking boots, when you reenter the living room. Charles is staring at him with his jaw hanging open. Next: "The Party Scene" |
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