Chapter #68Peeling Chelsea by: Seuzz   "Dude," you reply. "How much more trouble could we be in?"
You and Caleb are in the back corner of the city library, with the captain of the Westside High School cheerleader squad curled up unconscious in a chair as you and your best friend attempt to engineer a sort of body swap. If you're lucky, no one will come back here and catch you. If you're unlucky, you hope they'll just think Chelsea is asleep.
At least the scene is a little better than it was a few minutes ago, when Caleb too was unconscious, and stretched out on the floor. That was part one of the swap, as he forced himself into a kind of mind meld with Chelsea by slapping on a magical metal band that contained a copy of her memories and personality.
He's awake again now, though a little groggy, but he's got the presence of mind to dive for Chelsea as a bluish glow engulfs her face. He catches the mask as it drops out of her. "Now for the tricky part," he says as he lays it aside and digs into the plastic bag that he brought with him from home. He draws out another blue-tinted mask.
"What are you doing?" you exclaim as loudly as you dare, for though you're hidden in a back corner, you are still inside a library and you can't afford to draw attention to yourself. "You're not going to put it on her, are you?"
"That's the idea, isn't it?" he retorts. "Turn her into me?"
"You want Caleb Johansson popping out inside her clothes?" You point at Chelsea. Her peppermint-colored sweater looks big enough to hold your friend's torso, and the skirt could probably fit around his own rail-like build. But her white hose would totally tear if his legs sprang out where hers are now nestled, and you wince to imagine his boat-like feet popping into her tiny little tennis shoes.
"We can't have her waking up," Caleb hisses back. "Not after what we did to her. Maybe you could carry her out? We could put her in her car, it's parked outside."
"I can't carry her out like this! It'd look fucking weird, and ten to one we'd get stopped by the library staff wondering what happened to her."
"So we do what? Undress her here?" Caleb's eyes bulge when you don't answer. "No!" he gasps. "You're not seriously thinking—"
"We don't have to get her out of everything. Just her shoes and her hose. The rest will be okay. I think."
"You think taking her panties and hose off will be okay?" he whinnies. "Are you fucking—?"
"Just keep watch!" You drop into a crouch and pick up one of Chelsea's feet. "We should'a done this while she was being copied," you mutter.
"Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," Caleb moans, but he hops over to keep watch for anyone coming through the stacks. Still you can hear him murmuring to himself there, even as you concentrate on Chelsea.
First one shoe you untie and pull off, then the other, while casting a fearful glance up into her face to see if it will wake her up. She doesn't stir. Man, you think as you slide a hand up under her skirt to feel for the top of her hose. If Gordon—if the old, real Gordon—ever caught me doing this to his girlfriend, he'd wouldn't just break all my bones. He'd duct-tape me to the school parking lot and run over my head with his car. And then he'd get mean.
You have to lift Chelsea's skirt to find the top of her leggings. You pry at the elastic top, which binds tightly to her waist, but it doesn't want to turn loose. You grimace, and shift your hold to the sides of her hips. Again you pry and tug, but only succeed in pulling her toward you, and she slides down in her seat. Her head lolls, and she groans softly. You freeze.
But she doesn't wake. More carefully, you force your fingers between the top of her hose and her skin, and slowly peel it down.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, sometimes working on the sides, sometimes at the front, and sometimes by reaching around her back, you tug the hose down. Your face twists up into a rictus of fear, and your heart hammers in your throat. This would be a hell of a lot sexier if Chelsea were awake and willing instead of lying there as a dead weight. As it is, you can't help thinking that it must be a little like trying to peel the panty hose off a dead, cross-dressing whale.
You've just got the back of her hose off and under the curve of her buttocks when she makes a noise, and you look up in time to see her swallow. Her eyes are still closed, but there's no telling how long that will last. "Dude!" you hiss over your shoulder while keeping your eyes locked on her face. "Caleb!" You wrench Chelsea's hose the last few inches they need to clear her hips, and yank it halfway down her thigh.
She opens her eyes and turns her head. For a moment she gives you a puzzled, sleepy look. Then her eyes widen, and she gasps. "Seth?" she squeaks.
Your jaw hangs open. But before you reply, something long and brown shoots past your ear. For an instant it's like her face is swirling down a drain.
Then you're staring into the frowning face of your best friend.
You fly back, bumping into someone who grunts and also falls backward. There's a brief, confused battle with gravity, and then you're in a tangled heap on the floor. You whip around into a crouch and come face to face with your best friend. "Get off me," he groans. You scramble away until you bump into the wall, then whirl around and fall onto your ass.
Two Caleb Johanssons are glancing with expressions of wide-eyed consternation between you and each other. The one in the chair is wearing a peppermint-colored sweater; white hose is clinging to his bony knees, and his dick is visibly flapping about underneath a disordered gray skirt. He kicks at the air, making a further twisted mess of the hose.
Caleb—the real Caleb—is the first to recover his wits. "Stop that," he orders his doppelganger with a jab of his finger. The other falls still. "Will," Caleb says, turning to you. "Are you okay?"
"I've been better," you retort, and glance around. At any moment you expect a librarian to come hurtling out of the stacks with a finger to her lips. "Let's just—" You lick your lips and pat the air with your palms. "Keep it quiet. Okay?"
"No, let's just get this farce over. I told you it was a bad idea."
"He's always getting bad ideas," the other Caleb says. "Shut up," you and the real Caleb retort in unison.
"Okay, I'll keep watch now," you say as you scramble to your feet. "While you and, uh—" A horrible thought hits you. "Shit!"
"What's biting you now?" Caleb demands.
"You and him, changing clothes." You point between them. "He can't go out dressed like that!" The other Caleb has at least brushed his skirt down so it covers his crotch, but still looks like a cross-dressing scarecrow, and would look like more of one if he actually stood up. "And it'd be just as bad," you continue, "if you put on his— Uh?"
"You were saying?" Caleb says as he pulls jeans, a shirt, and some sandals from the same bag that had the mask in it. "Some of us at least are able to think a little bit ahead."
You make a face. "So where was your plan for dealing with Chelsea? No, just shut up and change." You turn your back to him. "And don't tell me to turn around until you're all set back there, because I don't want to see more than I already have!"
* * * * *
The rest of the changeover is much less fraught. Caleb's replacement, in replacement clothes, lopes out a few minutes later with the original's wallet, keys and book bag; a minute later you and Caleb (still in his form and clothes) follow. He goes straight to Chelsea's car and climbs into the back seat with her things under his arm. At his direction, you camp out inside your truck to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, a messy-headed Chelsea Cooper briefly pops up in the back seat of her car to look around, but she dives back down again, and you settle back to wait for a more definitive signal. It's another quarter-hour before it comes—an impatient flick of her wrist—and you run over to jump into the passenger side of her car as she gets out to move into the driver's seat. "Are we going somewhere?" you ask.
"Why would we be going anywhere?" Chelsea replies. Her eyes and face are much harder than they were up in the library earlier. "You think I wanna take you someplace quiet for a blow job?"
You grin. "That's what she was planning to do with me, wasn't it?"
Her lip curls into an ugly but familiar sneer—the expression Chelsea usually wore when forced to look at Will Prescott.
"Whatever Chelsea was planning for Seth," she says, "it all went into the shitter half an hour ago. Same thing for whatever Cindy is planning," she adds.
"Cindy? Planning what?"
"To take over as head cheerleader, right?"
"Oh. Yeah, well, she hasn't told me her plans."
"Doesn't matter what they are, they won't work. That's what I was gonna tell you back there, before we got in that fight with her clothes." She brushes down her skirt. "Chelsea had plans of her own. Tomorrow morning, your girlfriend was going to find herself kicked off the squad."
You give a start. "Was?" you echo. "Uh, is the new Chelsea going to follow through on those plans?"
Now Chelsea gives a start. "Why wouldn't she?"  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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