This choice: Do something with Zack, and build toward a blow job. • Go Back...Chapter #8A Date with Yourself by: Seuzz   If this bitch wants to play it so cool, you smirk to yourself, let's see how cool she is when I start to go down on her with her own mouth?
* * * * *
The pancakes are quick to arrive, and while you wolf them down you talk to "Zachary Dillon" about the party, gossiping about who you hung out with, and confessing that you brought a flask of vodka with you with the intention of getting "totally shitfaced" at Amanda's. He listens with interest and even chortles a little, and shares about the time he got wasted at a football game his sophomore year. This disconcerts you, both because Beth is taking all this in stride, and also because she appears to be in complete command of your memories.
(And persona? It's a little hard to tell since you are watching "yourself" from outside yourself. But the performance matches the impression that you find Beth carrying around inside her head.)
When you've finished and paid and are getting up to leave, you ask him what he's going to do today. He shrugs and says something about calling up some of his friends to see what they're doing. What about hanging out with me? you suggest. Maybe pick up where we left off last night? You expect that get some kind of reaction, and it does but not what you expected. His eyebrows go up and he says, Sure, if that's what you want to do.
Okay, you asked for it, you growl to yourself.
* * * * *
At your suggestion, you follow him back to his place, where he drops off his car before climbing into the passenger seat of yours. He seems very pleasant and very docile, and he doesn't say much except to ask what you've been watching on streaming, which just has the effect of pissing you off more.
There is a subdivision not far from Beth's house, where she likes to go jogging (when she does go jogging) that runs smack up into a steep, limestone hill. The developers put in a little park here with a pond at the base of a craggy cliff face, out of which pours an artificial waterfall. There is only parking for half a dozen cars under the tall trees that shade the tiny lot, and as you had hoped there is no one there now when you pull up.
"What is this place?" Zack asks with a mild-sounding curiosity as he eyeballs it.
"Just a little park. You've never been out here?" You don't keep the contempt from your voice.
"No. How do you know about it? Do you live around here?"
"Just shut up and get in the back seat with me," you mutter as you open the car door.
He obliges, and a few moments later you and he are sitting in the back seat, looking each other up and down.
I'm about to make out with myself, you think with a stab of horrified glee. I wonder what it will be like. You have only just shifted slightly toward him before—same as last night—he twists over and puts an arm across you and presses his face into yours.
His mouth is warm and liquid and inquisitive, and after the initial shock of That's my tongue! you open your own mouth to his and start sucking him in. He is relentless but not pushy, and he breaks off now and then to catch his breath and give you a chance to catch yours, but even in these moments he rubs his nose alongside yours, or smooches you gently on the side of your mouth. His arms wrap across you and behind you, and he pulls you to himself. When you duck to put your face into his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, he turns his head slightly and nibbles at your ear.
God, he knows what he's doing! you think. And then: She knows how I'd do it!
And how would Beth do it?
As soon as you ask yourself the question, you feel a kind of internal nudge. More than her memories, her very persona is waiting there to be assumed. Like picking up a mask, you draw them to you and let them drape your mind.
* * * * *
Oh God, Zack, this is just the way I wanted it! you cry to yourself. You close your eyes and lift your face to the ceiling, and awkwardly cradle his head as he nibbles at your breasts through your t-shirt. He presses one palm under your shirt to your stomach, and gently rubs and strokes you there.
As much fun as it was to kiss yourself, it is volcanic when doing it while letting Beth's instincts run amok. It is not only the prettiness of the boy's face, but the feel of its curves as they scrape across yours that sets you off. The touch and play of his fingers. The heat and scent off his body. The brush and rustle of fabrics, and the fantasy of undoing all those buttons, and pressing your naked fleshes together while wrapping yourselves in each other's loose and flapping clothes.
And it is like he is psychic, picking up not only on your mood but even on each stray thought and desire. When you lifted your face from his, he fell (as you had hoped) upon your throat. When you lowered your face, he nuzzled the side of your head and buried his nose in your hair so that you could bury your nose in his. When you threw a leg over his lap, he put a hand down to support your lower back and hold you in place as you mauled his mouth.
And when you fell back into your seat, he put his face to your breasts and nibbled at them through your t-shirt.
God! you think in an agony, and grind the heel of your hand into one eye. Is Beth so good at this that she can act like me and instantly guess what I—what she—would want?
Fuck! She is making me want her—making me want myself—so bad that I'll kill myself if she laughs it off and dumps me! Is that her revenge for last night?
You should break things off, demand some kind of reckoning from her, but your body won't stop. So when Zack falls back into his own seat—almost as though at a mental prompt from you—you clamber atop him with a throaty growl, straddling his hips with his knees and brushing the top of your head against the roof of the car, and open your own mouth devour him.
But something goes wrong with your jaw and throat. They both seem to open up in a way that feels unnaturally wide, as though your jaw has unhinged itself, and as though your throat has coiled open. You feel the collar of your t-shirt tighten as you feel your neck bulge out. All the strength drains from your limbs, and your eyes roll shut.
But the world doesn't vanish. All is dark for just a moment, and then you see Zack's face rushing at you. His own mouth too has opened unnaturally wide, and you have the horrifying impression of rushing at it and into it, and then all is dark again. Dark and moist. Muscles massage your body as you plunge into him, down his throat.
There is a long moment of stormy confusion. Then you feel limbs again, strengthening, and you open your eyes. Beth Larter is sitting on your lip, her head hanging limply to one side, with her eyes shut and her mouth hanging open. You feel yourself frowning, and as if in answer she straightens up and opens her eyes. She looks at you, with a faint curiosity.
"Okay, that was weird," she says as she wipes a smear of bubbling spit from her mouth. "Kind of like last night, but in reverse?"
You glower at her, but she only returns you an open but quizzical smile.
"Beth?" you say.
"Yes."
"Is that you?"
Her gaze goes distant. When she focuses on you again, there's the faintest smirk on her lips.
"Do you want it to be?" she asks.
"What does that mean?"
She doesn't answer, but her head jerks from side to side, and her limbs twitch. For a moment she looks like a marionette being manipulated by a puppet-master whose got the strings tangled up.
Then she goes still. But a dark, hooded look comes into her eyes.
"I don't know what I mean," she says in a kind of throaty purr. "Except that I think I've got a choice."
* * * * *
This is too much. You push her, and she jumps off as you dive for the car door. You clamber out and hurry to the side of the pond, where you catch your breath, smoothing down your hair and patting down your clothes as you try to get a grip. You raise your hands to your face and study them.
They are your own hands, and you are dressed in your own clothes—khakis and a black, Oxford shirt. You touch your hair again, confirming that it is yours, and cautiously shake your limbs out.
I'm me again, you think, and glance back at the car. Reflections and sunlight bounce off the windshield, so its occupant is invisible.
I'm me again, you think. But there's more of you, too. Because now you can remember not only waking in Beth's bedroom, and showering in her bathroom, and dressing and talking to her mom and going to IHOP. You can remember waking in your own bed, and showering and dressing at your own house, and getting a text from Beth, and driving out to meet her, and talking over breakfast.
But nowhere in those memories is there any hint of shock or panic or horror or delight, as you felt on waking in Beth's house and body.
You walk back to the car, and look into the back seat at the girl curled there like a cat.
"Who are you?" you croak through the open window.
"Bruh," she croaks. "I think I'm you." You have the following choice:  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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