Chapter #34Dropping the Masks by: Seuzz   Chelsea, you decide. Except the decision is so quick and intuitive that it almost isn't a decision. It's more like instinct.
Yes, Chelsea. Not only does she have her fingertip on the pulse of the school, she's got exactly the kind of scheming brain that you want to manipulate a junior partner. I could get the experience I need from her, then use it when I shift into Kelsey or David or whoever later on.
Also, she's got breasts and legs and that glorious mane of golden hair.
We need to meet tonite, you text Number One. Your house ok if no one else there. She texts back Great looking frwrd to it! followed by a thumb's up and a string of smiley-face emojis.
* * * * *
"Well, hello there, Kim!" Mrs. Cooper exclaims as she lets you in the front door. "Are you going to start being a regular out here?" She laughs.
You give her one of your shyest smiles. "Maybe, Mrs. Cooper!"
"Well, I do hope so! Maybe we'll have you over for dinner some night?" She laughs again.
Before you can answer, there's a thunder of footsteps on the nearby staircase, and Chelsea appears. "Mom!" she barks.
"Well, here's the boss lady," her mother says, and her voice tightens a little. "You girls going to be at it long? You can have the dining room, if you need the room to study."
"Oh, we're not studying," you tell her. "I just need to talk to Chelsea about some school things. Er." You glance between the beaming Mrs. Cooper and her glowering daughter. "I'll put my head in and say goodbye before I go."
"You do that." Mrs. Cooper wags a playful finger at you. "I won't let you back in next time if you don't!"
You give her a bright, beaming smile, then turn to follow Chelsea upstairs. You can't help wondering what Chelsea's relationship with her mother is like. Mrs. Cooper, like her daughter, is short but strongly built, with a prodigious bosom and loose cascades of blonde hair. She was probably a cheerleader back in her day, you think, then reflect that you'll soon know all (and more) about Chelsea and her family that you could care to know.
"Did you have any trouble keeping Gordon away?" you ask Number One in a low voice.
"No." She leads you around a corner and down a short corridor to her bedroom. "We're hardly talking these days."
That could be a problem, you reflect. Maybe I should start a to-do list.
Number One closes the bedroom door behind you, then turns a mildly quizzical face upon you. Her expression is empty, but her complexion is clear, bright, and glowing. Like sunlight filtering through a peach grove, you find yourself thinking.
"We need to reorganize the team." You point to her face. "I'm changing places with you."
"Okay." She sounds puzzled.
You can't help feeling nervous as you glance around. You'll have disrobe, down to Kim's naked skin and beneath even that, and it would never do if Mrs. Cooper decided to bring up lemonade or hot chocolate for fresh brownies while you were in the midst of it all. "I'll start in the bathroom," you tell Number One. "Get rid of your mom if she happens to knock."
You expect her reply with a Gladly or a Happy to or even a Ptah! Yeah! Instead, Number One only nods and says, "Done and done, boss."
There's no time for pleasure once you're in the bathroom, but quickly peel off the t-shirt, sweatpants, socks and flip-flops that you'd changed into before coming. And you're still businesslike even as you unhook the bra and slide off the panties. That "fog" is coming over you again: the sense that someone else is willing you to perform. Your mind fades to a near blank after you are standing, slender and pale as a sapling, in Chelsea's bathroom, staring at your reflection in her vanity mirror, and your actions are automatic even as you lift and fondle your breasts with both hands, to touch and tap at your nipples. Your lips part as though to speak, but nothing comes out save a quiet gasp and gurgle. How long you stand this way, petrified, staring into the infinite distance behind the face in the mirror, you are not sure. But the world has faded to a featureless gray even before you feel yourself settle onto the bath mat and stretch out. Your hands are numb even as they grasp at your face ...
* * * * *
You wake with a panic and bolt upright. Your heart is pounding and your breath is blowing in and out like a steam engine. Jesus! you think as you gently pat at your throbbing temple. What the holy fuck was that?
You know who you are and where you are, and how you came to be here and what you're doing, and you are assailed by the urgent sense that you need to put on Chelsea Cooper's mask and clothes and send the Kim Walsh doppelganger home. But you are trembling all over, and your limbs feel weak. All you can wonder (over and over) is What the fuck was that?
"That" of course was the weirdly robotic way you were acting as Kim, and you glance around uneasily, half afraid that the someone whose presence you felt will throw off a cloak of invisibility and step out in front of you. I was myself, you explain to yourself as best you can. At least, I was being Kim. And then it's like I was ... someone's puppet. It gives you a queasy tummy.
But you force yourself onto your feet, even though your knees tremble, and squint at your reflection. Oh God, it's me again, you glumly think. A shock of straw-like hair that looks like it's been chopped at with a Bowie knife; rabbity eyes that dart about under thick eyebrows; gigantic teeth that show when your lips spread out in a nervous grin. Bony shoulders and chest. It was so much nicer when it was—
Whoa! Your cock rockets to attention and your ballsack tightens when you remember Kim's naked reflection. Sure, Kim is far from the hottest girl in school. But she's got boobs, and soft skin, and a pretty face, and beguiling eyes, and as you fondled her (your!) breasts and nipples, you were—
I was what?
You frown. You still remember that gray and foggy sense of dislocation, of being a body manipulated from somewhere outside your own mind. But now you are on fire with a quite different memory: Dude, I was totally gonna finger-bang myself, except I knew I had to keep moving! You shut your eyes and chomp hard on your lower lip as you remember the your breasts and nipples prickling hard under your trembling fingertips, and the way your back bent like a bow drawn taut as you said goodbye to Kim Walsh's body.
A hard shiver runs though you, and you grab the edge of the vanity. Oh, these fucking masks! You thought they gave you someone else's memories. So how come you got a new set of memories when you took off Kim's? I don't understand these things or how they work, you think, and for a moment you are very frightened.
It's the sound of movement in the outer room that recalls you to your situation and your plans, and the recognition that there's nothing to do but press on with them. You are cheered, though, when you remember that it's Chelsea Cooper's body you will next be pouring yourself into.
You put an ear to the door, then pull it partway open. Chelsea is perched on her bed, tapping at her phone with her thumb, and she looks up and over it when she hears the door. For a moment she stares.
Then her face lights up, and she bounces onto her feet. "Boss!" she squeals.
"Shhh!" You wave a frantic hand. "Keep it down! Get your clothes off! All of them!"
Chelsea kicks off her shoes with a giggle. "Happy to, boss," she gurgles. "But you know, we can't do it in here. Chelsea's mom and dad— And her brother—"
"Just get your clothes off!" you hiss, not bothering to wonder what she's chattering about. "Is your door locked?"
"You bet!" With a glee that is almost grotesque, Chelsea tears off her pink sweatshirt and wriggles out of her flannel pajama bottoms. "I never thought we were going to do this, even when you said we wanted some privacy!"
"That's good." You almost choke on your own tongue as Chelsea unhooks her bra, and her fat, bouncy boobs pop out.
Her shining eyes are locked on you, even as she bends to pull off her panties, but they drift down to your crotch. She titters. "Golly, I could put my eye out if I tripped and fell onto that thing!"
You blush, but it's pointless to fight your gasping erection.
"Alright, get on the bed," you order as you hobble over to her. "Lay down. You need to hold still because—"
You gasp as she throws her arms around your neck and beams into your face.
"Mmmm," she groans from somewhere down near her diaphragm. "I kept meaning to thank you for leaving me that other one to play with, but I never got a chance because you always wanted to talk business. But I like this better."
"Better?" you squeak.
"Mm-hmm. Number Six, or whatever he is, he's okay. Adorable even. But you—!"
She sucks in a sharp gasp, and a light like fireworks explodes into her eyes. Then she's pulling you down, and her mouth is covering yours, and she's forcing herself past your lips. Before you know it, she is trying to suck your tongue out by its roots.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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