The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

Queen Sacrifice

Previously: "Queens and Pawns" 

You hold the possibilities in your mind, mentally juggling them as you wait. Go through with your plan to betray Chelsea? Or trust her? Suppose you double-cross her; wouldn't that make you no better than Chelsea? And then, after you double-crossed her, what do you do? What would you do with her, and with these spells and devices?

As the mask emerges from her face you snatch it up and quickly seal it. But then you hang back, paralyzed.

The doubts and second thoughts are almost too much. But piece by piece they crumble before a greater fear, that Chelsea will do as you feared: unto you as you are tempted now to do unto her. Because, surely, if it would be this easy for you to trap her under a mask, how much easier would it be for her to do it to you, when she can order her gorilla-strong boyfriend to help her.

The seconds are passing quickly, but they've run out after you have made your decision. You pop out in a sweat all over as you scramble for the bag containing that paste you made.

* * * * *

The mask has just vanished into her, and you're still bending over her, when Chelsea's eyes pop open. You jump back, and barely stifle a shriek. Chelsea, equally surprised, scoots back on her bed. You and she stare at each other a moment before she says, "Did it work?"

You swallow thickly. Her question—Did it work?—is yours too. Because if it didn't, she is going to be so far on the other side of enraged that you'll need a telescope to see her.

"Um— I— I think I messed up."

She frowns. "How?"

"Well, I, uh, I think I put the stuff on it in the, uh, wrong order." You are improvising, because you sure as hell didn't expect her to wake up so fast.

Her frown deepens, and her hand goes to the top buttons of her blouse. "So what were you doing just now?"

"Just checking to make sure you were still breathing."

She bounces off the bed and pushes past you for her bathroom. She puts the light on but doesn't bother to close the door as she disappears around the corner. There's a long silence before she calls out, "Should I be worried about anything?"

"Like what?" Your mouth is very dry.

"I don't know! That's why I'm asking you!" Her head appears around the corner, and her face is flushed. "You're the one who said—"

"There's nothing wrong with you! Don't worry! I was checking on you because, uh—"

"Well, okay then!" She puts out the bathroom light and rejoins you by her bed. "Are you going to have to start over again?" She's frowning, but the fear has vanished from her eyes.

Your heart seems to freeze inside your chest.

"Uh, I don't know. I'll have to look at the book again, look at the, uh, mask." You give her a careful look-over, but Chelsea says nothing. You hesitate, weighing your words, then say, "Get me a glass of water."

There's just the tiniest jerk in her shoulders, then she says, "Whatever you say, boss," and turns for the door. You collapse nervelessly onto her bed after she's gone.

* * * * *

Whatever you say, boss. That's what Chelsea Cooper—the head cheerleader, the queen of the school, the proud girlfriend of the biggest, nastiest ballplayer at Westside—said to you when you told her to bring you a glass of water.

Now, granted, you are, against all logic and reason, partnered with her in a magical project. But she's made it clear in the past that she is the boss, and you're the one following her orders. But there was no irony in her voice or manner when she said what she said, and left.

And it wasn't the only time that evening she called you "boss." Instead of bugging out as soon as possible, you cautiously made yourself a little camp at her desk, hunching up with the book while she sat patiently by on her bed and watched you work. You set her a few other tests as you pretended to study the spell: "Bring me a pen." "Bring me a notebook." "Stop texting and put your phone down." Some of these got more of a rise out of her, so that she grimaced and groused at why she seemed to be doing all the work. But even when she challenged you—"What for?" she demanded when you told her to bring you a roll of toilet paper from the downstairs bathroom—she was still moving to obey even while giving you a curdled look. And the word "boss" kept popping up as well.

You finally asked her about that: "Why do you keep calling me 'boss'?"

She blinked. "I dunno. Shouldn't I? It seems like you should be charge," she said. "You're the one who's figuring all this stuff out."

"That's right," you replied, and you felt a wave of shaky confidence roll over you. "I'm in charge. I'm the boss. I'm your boss," you added in a quavering voice, and couldn't help adding, "You want me to be your boss, Chelsea. You like me being your boss." And Chelsea, after a thoughtful hesitation, nodded as her puzzled expression cleared up. "Always call me 'boss' when we're alone," you ordered her, "like this. But never call me 'boss' when someone else is around."

"You got it, boss." She tittered, and stretched out on her bed, resting on her elbow. Her gaze turned hooded, and it seemed almost as though her lips got plumper.

It scared you, more than a little, this change in her attitude. You couldn't quite shake the paranoid fear that she was just toying with you. "What are you thinking?" you asked.

She tittered again. "I really should tell you?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She let out a short sigh. "I'm thinking that I really like a strong, take-charge kind of guy." She ran her tongue over her glistening lower lip.

Well, that got another rise out of you, from your scalp to your toes, but especially in your shorts. And when her knees fell apart and she let out another, more shuddering sigh, you tensed even harder.

Slowly you levered yourself to your feet. What you were about to do, it made you feel like you were about to put your head inside the mouth of a lion.

Chelsea grinned as you bent over her, putting your face to hers. Even then, you hesitated, shivering as her warm, fragrant breath brushed over your cheek. Then you put your mouth to hers.

It lasted only a few seconds, that kiss. You were still too frightened to do more than gently snack on her lips. "Oh, Will," she whispered when you bent your head and pushed your face into the folds of her hair. "Be my boss. Please!"

* * * * *

All that was a couple of hours ago, and you are now at home, in bed, in the dark, having filled your jerk-off sock with more cock-snot than you think you've ever shot out before, and judging by the restless twitches in your hips and thews, you'd be able to fill it again before falling asleep. It's not so much the memory of that kiss that gets you excited, but of the way Chelsea wound the word "boss" around her tongue. Did she ever talk to Gordon the way she talked to you?

Eh, probably. But what's important is that she's talking to you this way. The mask, you are now certain, worked. Chelsea Cooper is now your slave.

But that still leaves the question of what you are going to do next.

The most obvious play is to assume the identity of her boyfriend. Gordon, after all, is the captain of the basketball squad, and is the biggest, meanest athlete at the school. He's not "popular" the way Chelsea is—he's far too bad-tempered and bullying for that—but he is going to lead the Westside team to the state finals this year, and is probably going to win them. And the thought of being the big man at school is awfully tempting, especially if it means you can hang out with Chelsea—and fuck her senseless—any time you want without it looking weird.

But there are other possibilities. Marc Garner, for instance. He's the captain of the varsity soccer team, and is a lot more popular than Gordon. You've heard he has a girlfriend, but it would be nothing to get Chelsea to break up with Gordon and to start dating Marc. Or maybe you (as Marc) and Chelsea could cheat with each other on your official snugglemates. Maybe you as Gordon could cheat on Chelsea.

One fantasy will tread on the heels of another. As you imagine who at school you could be, and who you could get with using their bodies, you segue from the thought of fucking certain girls to the thought of being certain girls. Earlier this evening, you were giving serious thought to taking Chelsea's name, face, and body and making them your own. But there are other girls whose skins you could slip into. Girls like Kelsey Blankenship, who is richer and snootier while being just as much of a busybody. Or Andrea Varnsworth, the sexy and aloof swimmer.

* * * * *

You fall asleep late with wood, and you wake early with wood. As you nurse it, you drift back to the fantasies that occupied you last night. After taking consultation with yourself (and your jerk-off sock) you conclude that you want to be ...

Next: "In Search of the Perfect Hiding Face" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"