Chapter #14Commandeering Kendra by: Seuzz   Maria has the hotter body, but you're left cold at the thought of being stuck in a bubble head, and one all primed to flunk AP classes that you'd be no better at passing. Kendra would strike a better average.
"I like your choice," Chelsea says, and you wonder if you even had one, really. "She always leaves me feeling like I need to watch my--" She stops, and shoots you a sharp look. "My figure," she finishes, lamely. "She can be so catty without realizing it."
Unlike you, Chelsea, who are very good at calibrating cattiness to within a micro-meter.
"I can get her up here, too, without much trouble," she continues as she takes out her phone. "I could call Maria, but she'd forget as soon as she put the phone down." She reaches behind her and pulls out a mask. "You can put this on while we're waiting."
She's totally prepared, you glumly reflect as you take the blank from her. Has all the stuff prepped, probably has had it prepped for a few days now. With a sigh, you lay back and put the mask to your face. The last thing you hear is Chelsea's chirpy voice: "Hey Kendra! Guess where I am and guess who's been looking for you!"
* * * * *
You feel very cold when you wake, as though you've been sleeping on a slab in a morgue, and your muscles respond only stiffly. You'd like to go back to sleep. But you raise yourself with an effort. "How long've'b'n out?"
Chelsea is kneeling in front of a crate, on which is laying the book. A mask is balanced on one of its pages, and she's dropping some powder into it. "Beg pardon?" she says in a distracted tone.
"I said, How long have I been out?" Your mouth is very dry.
"I dunno, I didn't set a timer. Better go hide somewhere, though. Kendra will be here pretty soon."
She undoes a hair clasp and draws out a few blonde wisps, which she drops into the mask. She reaches for a box of matches. "Whose mask is that?" you ask.
"Yours, of course," she says, striking the match and dropping it into the mask. A wave of blue flames springs up and burns briefly with a soft hiss. "Whose would it be?" She brushes the inside of the mask with a cloth, spreading the goop around.
"Steve's?" you start to say, then look over. Gordon and Patterson--who is now alive to the world again--are sitting in a corner behind you. The latter's gray eyes bore into you, and he leans over to mutter something at Gordon; his "friend" snorts and mutters something back. Identical smiles, sour and unpleasant, spread over their faces.
"Better hop to," Chelsea says, as she raises the mask and admires her handiwork. You swallow at the realization that the mask--and thus the fake you--will be under her control. "Wait down in the boys' locker. Wanna friend to go with?" She turns a bright eye on you. "I don't need Gordon up here."
"That's okay," you hastily say as you rise. But it's too late. Gordon gets to his feet too, and, before you can croak out another word he pushes you from the room. With a meaty hand he guides you down to the locker room, where he blocks the exit with a smirk.
You wander around the room nervously. You've always hated locker rooms, with their stink and wet and deeply unpleasant memories of being hassled by boys bigger and uglier and nastier than you. So sharp are the memories of Westside's changing room, in fact, that you instantly recognize your old locker from your freshman and sophomore years, with its dent by the upper hinge. David Kirkham caught you in front of it once, and warned he'd use your head to put a matching dent by the lower hinge if you failed to make any baskets for your team during class ...
You continue to circle the space, nose and memories prickling sharply. Same corner with the discarded, unclaimed shirts and shorts. Why doesn't anybody pick those up? you irritably ask yourself.
"We make people eat them when they fuck up."
You jump at the sound of Gordon's baritone. You must have spoken your thought aloud. The idiocy of his reply inspires you to foolishly argue. "You can't make someone eat a shirt."
Your bowels are loosening before the words have fully passed your lips, for Gordon's eyes gleam. "Sure you can. Lemme show you."
"That's okay, I believe you, I shouldn't have oh shit oh FUCK!"
He's grabbed you by the upper arm, and then he seizes a huge handful of your hair, setting your scalp afire with pain. You gasp and writhe-- Okay, writhing is a really bad idea. Carefully you anticipate and follow his movements as he draws you down toward the pile. "See, we keep a whole variety," Gordon explains. "Some are pretty clean. Some are just dirty. Some are dirty and sweaty." He picks up a shirt and lifts it to his nose, to delicately sniff it like a wine connoisseur sampling a bouquet. He tosses it aside and lifts a sock, to do the same. Then he paws through the pile. "If you're only a little bit of a fuck up, you get something not too nasty. If you've really fucked things up--" He laughs, hoarsely and gutturally, as he lifts a big, limp white rag: tidy whities whose elastic has completely sprung. "The fat kid who leaves skid marks."
Your stomach simultaneously drops and rises. That chili cheeseburger you had for lunch apparently wants to revisit the outside world.
Gordon brings the thing close to your face. "We put it in your mouth, and you suck on it and suck on it, until we think you've--"
Ffffblaaaarrrttttt! A stinging geyser blows out of your esophagus and mouth, all over Gordon. Shocked, he lets go of your hair; and your vibrating nerves are like the tensed string on a stretched bow: you spring across the locker room, vaulting a bench, and are out the door faster than you think you've ever run before. He shouts after you, but you're out in the gym and across the floor. You cast a terrified glance back, but see no pursuit. The far bleachers loom, and you drop to the floor and worm your way underneath. From under the slats you watch the locker room entrance.
Minutes pass before Gordon appears. He's changed shirts, and he briefly peers around the gym before trudging over to the stairs, to disappear into the loft.
You sag and wait, heart hammering only a little less now that you've had time to recover. You jump a little when Gordon appears again, but it's only to cross to the side door, which he opens to admit Kendra Saunders; he leads her back up the stairs.
Good. Maybe once you're in her you can be free of Gordon's nightmarish attentions.
* * * * *
"For Pete's sake, what were you doing hiding back there?" Chelsea's hands are on her hips, and she glares as you emerge from under the bleachers.
"Just, uh, thought I'd keep a lookout. For when Kendra showed up," you lamely reply.
"Well, you should've come when Gordon called," she says. "I shouldn't have to come down here and get you myself." Behind her, Gordon smirks, and clasps one hand around the clenched fist of the other.
"Do you always cum when Gordon calls?"
She frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind. I guess we should go back up."
The creak of the stairs under your feet, Chelsea in front, Gordon behind: this must be what it feels like mounting the scaffold.
Inside the fuck room, a slender, angular figure turns. You flinch: it's your own naked self. He looks at you, and without shifting his head looks at Chelsea and at Gordon. The incongruous thought forms: Does he have a half-digested chili cheeseburger inside him, and could he expel it all over Gordon?
Chelsea pokes you in the arm. "He needs your clothes, sweetie. There's your things over there." You follow her glance: Kendra's neatly folded jeans and tank top and shoes and socks and crisp white baseball cap, with a mask laying nearby.
* * * * *
You are floating. You are empty. You are a soap bubble in a vacuum.
Something brushes across you. Something slips inside you. A leg. A leg is inside your leg. You have a leg now!
You have two legs! Arms, a torso, a head--
You gasp. Something like fingertips, millions and millions of fingertips, play across the surface of your mind. They probe, and you meet them with your own-- You have millions of fingertips too, you realize. You touch the others with your own, and fingers, millions and millions of fingers, fold and entwine. You draw the others close to you--
And then they are your fingers, folded and entwined with your own.
"Hmm?" You say lazily. Your eyes, you suddenly realize, are open, staring up at a dark ceiling.
"I said, do you want some privacy?"
"Mm-hmm."
Chelsea's face swims into your field of version. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." You clap your hands onto your breasts, which are just the right size to cup. "I'm very fine."
"Okay, yeah, you want some privacy," she says.
You hear footsteps, and then the sound of the door closing. You smile.
And then Steve Patterson's face looms into view. "Chelsea said you might want company."
Chelsea can bite me, you think.
You are very calm, so his smile doesn't alarm you. You smile back. The thought seems so obvious, that you wonder you didn't have it before: All you have to do is get his mask off him, make up some of that goop, and Patterson will be your slave, not Chelsea's.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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