Chapter #5Beth's Body by: Seuzz   You blink hard. The illusion doesn't dissipate. Beth Larter goggles back at you from the mirror.
"Holy shit," you mutter to yourself.
Your chin drops as your eyes fall to the bare breasts her reflection is flashing at you. They are white and plump and firm, with rosy tips that swell and rise even as you boggle at them. There is an answering prickle on your own body—
Hair falls into your face again as you look down at the breasts that hang off your chest, and impatiently you brush it back with one hand as you grab at one of the breasts with the other. Too hard! You wince as strong fingers and sharp nails bite into tender flesh. But your breath comes in wheezes and gasps as you stare with watering eyes at the hardening tip you have tilted up. You gently rub an index finger over it, and something goes ploosh! down below.
"Oh, Jesus!" you moan, and you drop the hank of hair you've holding back and grab at the front of your panties. (Panties! You are wearing Beth Larter's panties!) The space between your legs is empty, but that doesn't bother you. Your skin ripples hard—like it's trying to crawl off your body—as you rub the front of the panties and try to imagine what is underneath and behind. Your jaw loosens and hangs as you pull the hem of the panties back and push a tentative finger into a tangle of stiff hair!
"Beth!" someone hollers from another room, and you jump back so hard you have to grab the shower curtain to keep from falling over. "Are you up?"
What do I say? What do I say? you ask yourself in a panic. They're looking for Beth, and ... I'm Beth? In a flash of inspiration you shove the faucet handle up, and cold water sprays into the sink. Then you whirl and flush the toilet. Last, you turn on the shower.
There! you tell yourself. Now they'll think I'm in the shower! That'll give me time to— To—!
Your neck seems to creak as you slowly turn your head to take in the contents of the shower: tall bottles of shampoos and conditioners and body washes, and little bottles of bath oils. You look at the spray of water, and you think: Why can't I take a shower? I should. That'll give me time to think. And also time to—
You push down the panties and kick them off your feet. The water is cold as you step under it, but it warms quickly.
You warm even more quickly.
* * * * *
You take a very long time in the shower, turning up the hot tap every time the spray starts to turn lukewarm, until it is all the way on and the cold tap is all the way off, and even then you wait until the water has become uncomfortably cool before you shut it all off. And in the shower, under the water—
You start by rubbing your palms all over your body, starting with your cheeks and throat and the sides of your neck, and pushing them over your shoulders and down your arms and back up to squeeze them under your armpits. Beth's body is firm and strong, but not muscle-y like a guy's, just firm with a little definition. Then you cup and cradle your breasts, lifting them and studying them as the spray dews them with droplets; but they don't rise and prickle as they did before, not even after you push them up and strain your neck down to mouth and nibble at them. Then you hold them up with your forearm as you rub your other palm over your stomach. It is flat but soft, with baby fat spread over it.
Turning your back into the spray, you next push your hands down over your ass, pressing and squeezing it like a pair of fleshy sponges, and a little groan escapes your throat as there is an answer squeeze of muscles from between your legs. You set one foot on the little back shelf where bottles of cleansers are piled, and with both hands you squeeze your thigh down its length to the knee, then over the knee and down the calf to your ankle. You get another tingle as you flex your toes. You repeat with the other leg and foot.
You have held off from touching the last (and best!) place, and you hold off still as you sort through the bottles until you find a body wash, which you squeeze into a big, scruffy sponge. When it is nicely hot and sopping, you rub it over your body: down your front, under your breasts, over your legs and arms, and under your pits. You drop it without squeezing it out, and turn to the shampoos, lathering and rinsing your long hair, and shivering at the pleasure of its slap against your back between the shoulder blades. Conditioner too goes in before you pick up the sponge again.
Now, having working yourself up with anticipation, you push the sponge between your legs.
Mm. Disappointing. There is no answering jolt or spark, not even as you rub it faster and harder. Spitefully, you shift the sponge away, and slide a finger down inside the shallow place, where slicked-down hair is matted. You press and probe until you find a spot where the flesh turns tender, and you follow this until—to your surprise—you have buried it up your middle knuckle between tight folds of skin. You suck on your lower lip and close your eyes as you push it in deeper. You grunt at the lack of response, save perhaps for a slight stiffening that isn't actually a stiffening.
Well, shit, you think as you root around inside. Here I am fingering Beth Larter with her own fingers—because when am I gonna get a chance to do that again?—and it's about as much fun as digging inside my own ear. You pull your finger out and pop it in your mouth, sucking on it, and choke a little on a musky taste mixed with soap. Still it's a one of a kind experience.
You push and prod some more, not only up her pussy but also up inside her anus, and that turns out to be a lot more exciting, and you spend a good five minutes with one foot on that shelf, bent almost double, as you gently, a millimeter at a time, push a finger up her poop-hole. Your face is soon aching from the frozen grin of pleasure it gives you, and it's the increasing chill of the water that finally forces you, reluctantly to break off.
Outside the shower, you towel yourself off roughly while squinting through the steam at the fogged-up mirror. You didn't do any thinking while you were in the shower, so you do it now.
Okay, possibility number one, this is one really vivid and really fucked up dream. That would be great, but it would be even better if it was real.
Possibility number two, this is real, and Beth and I have switched bodies. Much cooler, but what do we do about it? Someone was yelling for me—for Beth—a little while ago. Probably her mother, and how do I deal with her?
Possibility numero c, I am somehow astral projecting. I am in my bed, in a trance, astral projecting into Beth's body. Nice, but what happens when I wake up again? Will Beth remember what she was doing in the shower? Is she in here with me now, screaming to be let out and watching with a horrified look as I—?
Your head jerks around so hard you almost brain yourself on the corner of a nearby cabinet. Is she in here with me? You have a sudden and vivid impression that there is another ... head ... inside yours.
Yes, it is somehow like a head, like a noggin, like a skull. You can't see it, but you can feel it. And something about it, as you fondle it mentally, says ... "Beth Larter."
You grip it—and it is like you are imagining yourself gripping and exploring a ball-like head—and press it and press close to it—
And with a gasp you are inside it! You are looking out through the eyes of ... Beth Larter!
* * * * *
Your eyes wander in their sockets as you stand stock-still in your bathroom, roving your sight through the hanging steam. Yes, this is your bathroom, and those are your clothes on the floor, and that is your bedroom on the other side of the door, and that was your mom calling you a little while ago. And that was you—but it wasn't you—in the shower poking yourself in all kind of places while washing yourself.
And after you leave the bathroom, you will get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast and talk to your mom, and then you will probably get on your phone and see what some of your friends—like Monica and Alyx—are doing. That was you at Amanda Connors last night where you purposefully got yourself shitfaced so you could talk to Zachary Dillon the way you've been dying to talk to him for a year now, and that was you who got in the car with him, and it was you that he—
Oh God! That's right, he puked right down my throat! And after you dry-heaved on it you got Monica to take you home where you went right to bed after trying really hard to be sick in the toilet.
And now—
* * * * *
You wipe clear a place in the mirror, and study your reflection seriously. I am Zachary Dillon. But it is the face of Beth Larter that looks back at you.
And there is another face under hers. The face of Beth Larter still, but a face made of memories,. Memories and desires and fears and inhibitions. It is a face that you are wearing under hers.
But they are your eyes looking through it, like a mask. And you can almost believe, save for their color, that they are your eyes looking back at you from the mirror. You have the following choice:  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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