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Nine Tenths Copyright (c) 1998 by Chilli TNG Author's Forward: This story is a multi-purpose experiment. First, I've been kicking around the basic idea for awhile now, but, because it's themed around Hallowe'en, I didn't want to write it at Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, Arbor Day, or, heaven forbid, Groundhog Day. It just wouldn't be proper. Well, now that it's October, I think the time is right for this little tale. Second, I wanted to see if I could put together a compact story in a short time frame that hung together, was enjoyable, and . . . well, a story that didn't blow. I've also given myself a five hour time limit to whip this out, so you, dear reader, will see what babblings come from my mind without the usual and requisite refinement, aging, mellowing, and fermentation; it could be a heady concoction, or it could be just so much swamp water. Third, I wanted to . . . no, I don't think so. If I give away too much here, there won't be any story for you to bother reading. This story is dedicated to Janice, my surrogate muse, because she laughs at my bad jokes and puns, because she knows how to cheer me up when I'm blue, because she's my friend, and because she believes that I deserve to consider myself a writer. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs to get a life. If you think you recognize yourself in one of the characters contained herein, you're mistaken. Any resemblance to anyone, living, dead, or undead, is pure random happenstance. There are likely to be adult themes contained herein as well. If you're not of legal age to read this, then stop reading this and delete it right now before your teeth start to fall out and large oozing sores open up on your newly hairy palms. This story may be posted on any archive site with two provisions: (1) the archive site is not a pay site and (2) you ask my permission before archiving it. This story is given freely and must remain free. If you liked this story and want to tell me so, or if you want to offer constructive criticism, please address your e-mail to [email protected]. If you want to send a flame, please address your e- mail to get-a- [email protected]. ********** Nine Tenths by Chilli TNG It was a glorious late October day; the trees were bare of leaves, the sky was overcast, the slight breeze that was present provided just enough coolness in the air to chill a person to the bone. In other words, it was a perfect day for Hallowe'en. Everyone thought so, from the milkman to the bus driver, from the store clerk to the bank president, from the cheerleaders to the president of the high school audio-video club. Everyone, that is, except for Jason Landers. Jason was in a funk that no amount of gloomy weather could cure. Hallowe'en was his favorite holiday of the year. He normally started work on his costume in early June, then began working on decorations for his house by mid-August. But this year, he'd had to work during the summer to pay for the old hearse he wanted to buy, and his costume- making and decoration- making time had all but vanished. Sure, he still had the decorations from last year, but they hadn't held up well over the past year, and he was worried that people in his neighborhood would remember them from last Hallowe'en and wouldn't call the police like they did before. After all, you just don't see a single-engine plane crash into the same house two years in a row. He figured that he could skip the decorations this year, anyway. People didn't drive around and look at Hallowe'en decorations like they did in years past. No, he wasn't giving much thought to decorations; he was concentrating all of his energies on coming up with a costume. He'd won the costume contest at his high school's Hallowe'en party for the past three years, and there was no way that he was going to lose on his senior year. But, try as he might, he just couldn't devise a costume that would clinch the title. Jason looked around his room and examined every item he saw that might possibly be useful for a costume. His werewolf hands were too small now, and their fur had been falling out for years. The alien mask he'd made his freshman year still fit, but its radio controlled drool and jaw action had stopped working, so he set it aside. He thought about throwing together a zombie costume, but none of his suits were tight enough or ratty enough to ruin, and he knew that his folks would kill him if he destroyed one of his good suits. The more he thought about the zombie idea, the more he liked it, so he decided to run downtown and check out the antique shops for old suits. The last time Jason had driven downtown, he'd noticed that a new antique story had been in the process of opening, but he'd been too busy to go in there before now. He found a parking spot right in front of the old building, went up to the door of the store, then stepped inside. Inside, the store was silent, the only noticeable sound the ticking of a large grandfather clock on one side of the room. The only light present was whatever ambient illumination came in through the dirty front windows. Many items on the shelves were covered with cobwebs and dust. Jason felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. "Huh . . . hello?" Jason said tentatively. "May I help you?" replied a voice so deep, so resonant, that Jason expected to see the original Lurch standing behind the counter. Instead, Jason saw a man, just barely visible behind the marble-topped counter, frantically waving a wood stick that appeared to be as old and gnarled as the man himself. "I'm . . . I'm looking for a suit," Jason croaked out as he walked towards the old man. "Goodwill's down the street," the man snapped back. "No," Jason said, "I need an old suit. It's for a costume." "Ohhhh," said the old man, "why didn't you say so in the first place, Jason?" "I didn't think it would matter mu . . . hey, how did you know my name?" "Your reputation precedes you," said the old man. "I've been expecting you, actually." A withered hand shot up from behind the counter. In the old man's hand was clutched a business card. Jason took the card the old man offered and glanced at it. "Wee Bee Antiques and Movie Memorabilia," he read from the card, "a division of Wee Bee Spells." This had to be the oddest card that Jason had ever seen, and it was certainly the strangest name for an antique store that he'd ever heard in his life. "What's your name?" he asked the old man. "Just call me 'Caretaker,' Jason," the old man replied. Jason was standing so near to him that he could actually feel the floorboards beneath his feet vibrate as the old man spoke. "Well, where are the suits?" In response, Caretaker swung his ancient staff over the counter and pointed it over Jason's shoulder. "Upstairs," he rumbled, "far back corner. Everything's by size. There is a nice tweed suit that would work well for a zombie." "Thanks," Jason said as he turned in the direction that Caretaker had indicated. He got half way up the stairs before Caretaker's words sank in. "How did he know I was gonna make a zombie costume?" Jason muttered under his breath. "Why else would you want an antique suit?" he heard Caretaker bellow from below. "I may be short, but I've got excellent hearing." Jason wandered over to where the suits were supposed to be and began to look them over. As Caretaker had offered, the tweed suit fit Jason's needs perfectly; it would be just tight enough in places to split nicely, and was loose in other places. Once he'd gotten it grubby and weathered, it would be perfect. And, most importantly, the price was right; seven dollars fit his budget pretty well. He practically ran back down the stairs and to the marble counter, where he placed his intended purchase. As he laid the suit on the counter, something caught his eye. It was one of those old fortune-telling eight-balls, the kind where you asked a question, picked up the ball, then turned it over and saw the answer to your question rise up to the little window. "Cool," Jason said as he picked up the eight-ball and examined it. It appeared almost new. "I've always liked these things." "It's yours for a buck," Caretaker said, startling Jason, who nearly dropped the ball. "Nah," Jason said, putting the ball back on the counter. "I don't really need it." "Oh come on," Caretaker replied. "It's only a buck. And this one's special. It used to belong to that actress, Heather Campbell." "Heather Campbell!" Jason thought, his heart skipping a beat. Heather Campbell was Jason's favorite actress. She'd made her name starring in a series of low-budget horror films, where she showed off both her acting talent and her terrific body. Jason had seen every movie that Heather had ever made at least ten times. Her career helped get Jason through puberty. And last year, when Heather had died in a freak hair curler accident, Jason had mourned for weeks. If this eight-ball had truly been hers, Jason simply _had_ to have it. "How do I know that it belonged to Heather?" Jason asked. "I got it from her estate auction," Caretaker said. "The receipt is here somewhere . . . ." Jason knew that there had been an auction of Heather's belongings, so he interrupted Caretaker. "No prob'; I'll take the eight-ball, too." "That'll be eight dollars total," Caretaker said. Jason counted out eight singles from his wallet and laid them on the countertop, then picked up the suit and eight-ball and headed for the door. He never saw Caretaker actually reach up for the money, but it was gone when he looked at the countertop again. "Thanks for stopping by," Caretaker called to Jason, who was already heading for the front door. "Come back any time." Jason tossed the suit into the back of the hearse, then sat down behind the wheel. "Am I gonna win the costume contest?" he asked aloud, then turned over the eight-ball. "Definitely," was the reply. ********** Jason had been working feverishly on his new zombie costume, but, no matter what he did, it just wasn't turning out right. The vest he had been working on was tossed aside with a fit of disgust. Absentmindedly, he said to no one in particular, "Is this zombie costume a stupid idea?" He then picked up the eight-ball and turned it over. He stared expectantly at the inky black circle on the bottom of the ball. "You betcha," was the ball's silent reply. "Damn," Jason said in disgust. "I knew it. I've been wasting my time on this stupid costume. I've only got a few hours before the party, and now I've got no idea what to do for a costume. "Oh great, now I'm talking to myself. Whaddya think, ball? Is it stupid to be talking to myself?" "Not at this time," it replied through the blackness. "Should I try fixing up the werewolf costume?" "Nope," answered the ball after a flick of Jason's wrist. "How 'bout the alien?" "No way." "Shit!" Jason set the ball down and went to his closet to rummage through it one more time. He checked out his collection of bloody t-shirts, but didn't find one that excited him or that he thought was contest-worthy. At the top of his closet were box after box of the masks he had purchased or made over the years. He pulled them down and tore through the collection, discarding various Freddy masks, Shape masks, and even the Scream mask he made long before anyone could find them in stores. An unwarranted "thump" against his foot caused Jason to look down. To his surprise, the eight-ball was there, wobbling slightly as it balanced itself upon its tiny flat spot. "I thought I left you on the bed," Jason muttered to himself. On a whim, he said "How 'bout it ball? Do you have a suggestion for my costume?" He picked up the ball and turned it over. Slowly, the answer bobbed up to the window -- "Yes." "Oh, that's just great. Alright, ball; you think you're so damn smart, huh?" "Yes." Jason turned the ball over again, his hand shaking slightly. This was no longer funny. He was actually starting to believe that this ball was answering him when he knew damn well it couldn't. It was just a tube with black ink and a floating multi-sided object inside with mumbo-jumbo written on it, all surrounded by a plastic ball painted to look like an eight-ball. It couldn't be actually trying to talk to him . . . could it? "Hey, ball. Who was elected president in 1996?" "Bill Clinton," was the reply. "Holy shit!" Jason gasped, nearly dropping the ball in the process. There was no way that "Bill Clinton" was entered onto one of the sides of the answer object. At least, Jason was pretty certain that he wasn't. He decided to test the eight-ball again to see if it continued to provide impossible answers. "Who was Luke Skywalker's droid co-pilot?" he asked the ball, then turned it over. "R2-D2," was the reply. "This is too cool!" Jason said. "Alright, ball, here's the big question - - What costume should I use for tonight's costume contest?" The ball seemed to tremble as Jason turned it over. He imagined that he could actually feel it shake beneath his fingers. He stared at the view window, anxiously awaiting the answer. Slowly, more slowly than it should have taken, the answer floated to the surface. "ME!" "'Me'? 'Me'? That's your great costume idea? 'Me'? You gotta be joking. I'd be the laughing stock of the school if I showed up dressed like an eight-ball!" Jason started to laugh, and then he noticed that the ball was really vibrating now. He looked down at the view window and saw, impossibly, the answer object actually sinking back down into the inky void. He stared at it, incredulous. Suddenly, the object was back at the window. It hit the window with such force that it actually cracked the plastic, then pushed its way through. Jason could still see that it said "ME!" on the face that was visible. It was the last thing he saw before the view object struck him between his eyes and knocked him unconscious. ********** "Oh, my achin' head," Jason moaned as he sat up. He put a hand to his forehead and could feel a slight lump there. The ruined eight- ball was laying next to him, its ink having spilled all over the floor. Jason stood and went over to his dresser mirror so he could survey the damage on his forehead. However, when he looked into the mirror, he got the shock of his life. The image that stared back at him was not his own. It was Heather Campbell's. "What the . . . ." Jason said. As he spoke, he noticed that his "reflection" did not match his own movements. "I'm sorry about the bump on your head, Jason," the image in the mirror said. "You weren't getting it, so I needed to make a point." "Heather? Heather Campbell? This can't be. I must be dreaming." "No dream, Jason. It's me . . . well, my ghost, at least." Jason jumped back at that. "Um, ghost?" "Well, I am dead, you know." "Of course I know. I'm one of your biggest fans." "That's right," Heather said, a smile crossing her stunning face. "You even sent flowers to my funeral." "How did you know that?" "What are you, a brick? I told you, I'm a ghost. I checked out the cards myself. Just 'cause I'm a ghost doesn't mean I can't read." "I'm sorry," Jason said, blushing. "I didn't mean to doubt you. I'm just finding this kind of hard to believe." "Am I your first ghost?" "Yes," Jason said. "How cute," Heather replied, her voice getting an adorable coo to its already breathy tones. "A ghost virgin. Well, I promise to be gentle." Jason blushed again. Heather's use of the word "virgin" hit him pretty close to home, and he didn't want to admit to her, even a ghost her, that he was a virgin in more ways than with ghosts. Heather glanced at Jason and took note of his reddening cheeks. "Jason," she said, "you asked me a question, and I tried to answer you, but you didn't believe me. I really do have the perfect costume for you. All you have to do is reach out and touch the mirror and its yours." Jason found Heather's voice unbelievable hypnotic. He took several steps towards the mirror. "All I have to do is touch it?" he questioned. "That's right," Heather said. She stuck her index finger into her mouth and wrapped her full, moist lips around it, then pulled her finger seductively from her lips. "Just touch right here," she breathed as she placed her index finger against the mirror. Slowly, Jason reached out and placed his own finger against the mirror, directly opposite Heather's moistened digit. Oddly, the mirror felt warm at that spot. "Oh yes, Yes, YES!" Heather screamed as though she were having an orgasm. "Baby, come to momma!" Jason was frightened now, and pulled his finger away from the mirror. But, as he did so, Heather's finger began to come through the mirror. Jason began to back away from the mirror faster and faster, but Heather was stuck to him and he continued to pull he through the mirror. Jason looked down at his hand and let out a gasp. His hand was no longer his own. It looked exactly like Heather's had, right down to the long, polished nails. Jason stopped backing away from the mirror and instead stared at the image it reflected back to him. He could see himself standing there as his wrist and then his arm were slowly swallowed up and transformed into the image of Heather Campbell. She was enveloping him like a second skin, and he was powerless to stop her. He could see Heather smiling at him. "Jason," she said in what were intended to be reassuring tones, "don't fight it. And don't worry. I won't hurt you. I'm just trying to give you your wish -- a costume that will ensure your win at the party tonight." In response, Jason could only stare at his image as he watched himself vanishing rapidly in place of Heather Campbell. In his fantasies, he'd often imagined getting close to her, but this was ridiculous. In a few moments time, Jason had vanished completely, and Heather was now standing in his place. She stretched luxuriously, arching her back and thrusting her more than ample chest forward, straining the fabric of Jason's shirt. "Oh, that feels so good," she purred. "Real flesh and blood again." She looked at the mirror and surveyed her image. "Jason," she said, "you're gonna just love tonight. But I think I need a better costume than the clothes you were wearing." Heather pulled Jason's shirt up over her head, then tossed it aside. Likewise, she undid his pants and let them drop to the floor. Clad only in Jason's Fruit of the Loom underwear, Heather stopped once again to look at herself in the mirror. "Do you like what you see, Jason?" she asked. "You can talk, you know . . . when I want to let you, that is." "You . . . you're . . . oh God, you're more beautiful than I'd ever dreamed." "Thank you," she replied to herself, tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment of Jason's praise. "I bet you want to touch me, don't you? It's alright; they're your tits now, too." Jason reached Heather's hand up and cradled her breast, savoring its weight in her hand, marveling at how it was both firm and soft at the same time. "Touching isn't a problem, Jason, but, please, try not to drool," she said as she reached her other hand up to wipe her chin. "I'm sorry, Heather," Jason said. "I've just never . . . um, I've never . . . ." ". . . felt a boob before?" Heather finished with a laugh. "Jason, you've been spending too much time here in your room. You really need to get out more. Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to get some other clothes for tonight." Heather reached her hand through the mirror; when she pulled it back, she had several articles of clothing clutched in her fingers. "Jason," Heather said as she worked at capturing her breasts in a push-up bra, "just sit back and let me take care of things. I promise you, you're gonna have a great time tonight. And, you're gonna win that contest." ********** By the time Heather/Jason got to the dance, everything was in high gear. The music was blaring, people were mingling about, shouting at the tops of their lungs just to be heard over the din. But, when Heather reached down, opened the door, and made her entrance, all eyes were on her and her alone. "Oh my," she said quietly, so only Jason could hear her, "I'd forgotten just how wonderfully tacky a high school dance could be. Let's go have some fun and win that contest." As her costume, Heather had chosen to wear the outfit she'd made famous from her most popular movie, "Psycho Slut From Hell." In it, Heather had played the Psycho Slut herself, quite a departure from her previous "good-girl" roles. Her feet were encased in shiny black latex boots, complete with four-inch dagger heels (Jason had worried about just being able to stand in them, let alone walk, but Heather was taking care of the walking and balancing, and they hadn't even stumbled once). The boots ended mid-calf, and Heather was bare from that point up to her bright red thong bikini bottom. Her top was ensheathed by a tight red corset, which helped her breasts stick out like a shelf. Around her waist was a black belt from which hung a bullwhip on one side, and a large, sheathed knife on the other. Her delicate arms were encased by gloves that matched her boots; however, the fingers had been cut away, revealing Heather's long fingernails, which she had painted a red so dark it was almost black. Around her neck was a leather collar with pointed studs; from the collar hung a cape of sheer red fabric. Her makeup was exotic without being garish, and her lip color matched the color on her nails. Her long blonde hair had been pulled back into a tight knot at the top of her head, and from there it streamed down her back in one thick ponytail. She was a bitch in heat, she was on the prowl, and everyone in the room knew it. As she made her way to the contest entry table, an uptight- looking man was pushing his way through the crowd towards her. "Who's this wiggler?" Heather questioned Jason. "That's Mr. Wyler, the dean of students. I don't think he likes our costume very much." "Well, you talk to him first. I'm only gonna step in if I have to." "But Heather . . . ," Jason began, but the arrival of Mr. Wyler forced him to be silent. "Now see here, young lady," Mr. Wyler began, sputtering at Heather's obviously wanton charms, "this costume is entirely inappropriate for a high school gathering." "But Mr. Wyler," Jason said, shocked at first to hear his old voice coming out of Heather's luscious mouth, "it's just a costume. It's my tribute to Heather Campbell." A puzzled expression formed on Mr. Wyler's rotund face. "I know that voice. Jason Landers, is that you?" "Yes, Mr. Wyler," Jason replied, his voice cracking. "Good Lord, boy, don't you have any shame?" "Shame? I'm proud of this costume! Heather's my favorite actress, and, since it's been almost a year since she died, I thought that recreating her most popular character would be a great costume." "But to appear in public like this?" Heather had had enough at this point and took over for Jason. "Embarrassed because you find yourself attracted to me?" she purred, her voice switching back to her own as she did so. Whether it was the voice or what Heather said that did the trick, Jason couldn't tell for certain. But Mr. Wyler simply turned and, with a little click of his heels that reminded Jason of a Gestapo officer, he walked away. "That was great!" Jason gushed to Heather. "Thank you," she said. "Any bets that he's headed for the bathroom?" ********** After Heather had registered for the costume contest, she began to mingle through the crowd. She moved slowly, allowing everyone to see her, back in the flesh once more. She loved attention, and thoroughly enjoyed every hand that groped her taut buttocks, squeezed her breasts, and even the outstretched fingers that flicked her already excited nipples. But Jason, caught inside Heather, was mortified at the attention, especially the gropes and grabs. "How can you stand this?" he asked Heather. "Oh Jason, I would have thought the answer was obvious. I've been dead for almost a year; you said so yourself. I always loved physical attention, and, to have gone without it for a year, I'm feeling more than a bit frustrated right now. Can you honestly tell me that you don't enjoy seeing the obvious bulges forming in the crotch of every male in the room, just at the sight of me?" "I don't enjoy it one bit," Jason replied. "I'm not interested in men." "Well, what about women? A number of your female classmates have been giving us longing glances as well. Like that girl over there, the one with the waist-length black hair, wearing that slinky witch costume." Jason saw exactly the girl that Heather was referencing; how could he not, since Heather had complete control over where he was looking. She was staring back at him, unflinchingly, while she ran her moist tongue across her black lips. "That's Judi Evans," he said as quietly as he could, "the head cheerleader. She was in charge of planning this party." "You've got the hots for her, don't you?" Heather asked. "Don't bother to answer; I can tell by the way your heart's racing. Well, she's got the hots for you, too. Look, you can see it in her eyes." "No, she's got the hots for _you_, Heather," Jason replied. Heather let out a little laugh. "And _that_ makes you even more excited, doesn't it? Oh, Jason, we're gonna have some fun now." Jason was petrified with fear at the thought of talking to Judi, but Heather was in control now and simply swayed her way through the crowd until she was directly in front of Judi. "Hi," she breathed. "You look great, Judi." "You, too," Judi replied, her eyes still filled with lust. "I don't believe I know you, though." "I'm Heather Campbell," Heather replied. "No, I know that. Who are _you_?" Heather reached out a slender gloved hand and took Judi by the arm. "Let me show you . . . in private." "I thought you'd never ask," Judi replied with a coy smile. She turned and walked towards one of the many exits from the gymnasium, Heather following close behind. Jason was practically apoplectic with the turn of events. He had fantasized about Judi Evans since his freshman year, but she had always been an unattainable goal in reality . . . until tonight. He'd always seen her with Tom Addams, all-around jock and all-around jerk, or one of her cheerleader friends, but he'd never suspected that Judi would actually be interested in other women. "Heather," Jason whispered, "what are we going to do?" "_You_ are going to shut up and let me control this," Heather hissed back. "_I_ am going to show this little stuck-up bitch just what she's been missing all these years by ignoring you. And _we_ are both going to enjoy this immensely." Heather followed Judi into the cheerleader's dressing room, smiling all the while. Judi turned on the lights, then locked the door behind them. She came to Heather and enveloped her with a passionate embrace. She ran her tongue along Heather's dainty jawline, then up to her ear, where she paused to nibble on Heather's triple-pierced lobe. "Now, you hottie," Judi whispered into Heather's ear, "you were going to tell me who you really are." "Who do you want me to be?" In response, Judi struck Heather's buttocks hard. "I want you to stop playing games with me, bitch," she snarled into Heather's ear. "I know every desirable cunt in this school, but I don't recognize you. Who are you?" Heather broke Judi's embrace by gently pushing against her shoulders. When she was far enough away, she lashed out quickly with her right hand, striking Judi hard across the face. "So, you like it rough?" she purred, a smile spreading across her face. "On your knees." "Fuck you," Judi spat, then whirled for the door. As fast as Judi was, Heather was faster; she reached out and grabbed Judi's arm just above the elbow. "Not so fast, Judi dear," Heather said, her voice perfectly in control. "I told you to get on your knees." She squeezed her thumb into the hollow just above Judi's elbow, causing Judi to yelp in pain and to immediately sink to her knees. "Put your hands behind your back, Judi." Judi complied, and found that her hands were quickly bound behind her with a portion of her own hair. Heather then reached down and lifted Judi's right leg by the ankle, and tied the ankle up into the air with another portion of Judi's long black tresses. Heather walked back in front of Judi, who was having a difficult time balancing on only one leg. "Judi, what was it you said earlier? That you 'knew every desirable cunt in this school'? Would you recognize mine if I showed it to you?" "Of course," Judi said somewhat defiantly. "If you do, I'll untie you and let you have your way with me. If not, you get to pleasure me. Deal?" "Deal," Judi said, knowing that she'd win this little bet. "Alright now," Heather said, "take a good, close look, and tell me who I am." With that, she lowered her bikini bottom and, along with it, pulled back some of herself and allow Jason to show through instead. Jason had been silent through this entire procedure, and had gotten extremely turned on, so, when Heather released his penis, it sprang forth, instantly becoming rock hard, and it practically slapped Judi in the chin in the process. "Shit!" Judi cried, "you're a guy? But, who . . . ." "That's what I thought you'd say, Judi dear," Heather said triumphantly. "Now, open wide . . . ." ********** Heather was preening in front of a mirror, making sure that her makeup and costume were absolutely perfect. She had a very satisfied look on her face, coupled with a slightly sly smile. "Jason," she called. "Hey, Jason, you up yet?" Slowly, Jason felt consciousness returning. "What happened?" he asked. "The last thing I remember was hearing you scream." "That was my orgasm. Judi's got a very talented mouth. I'd figured it would be intense, not having had one for a year, but I'd forgotten to take into account how my feelings would pass through to you." "That was an orgasm? From a blowjob? Cool!" "I guess that was a first for both of us; your first one, period, and my first one with a dick. I told you we were gonna enjoy this." Jason noticed that Judi was laying on the floor, unconscious. "What'd you do to her?" "Nothing. She must have had an orgasm, too, and passed out. Maybe she picked up on the intensity of us getting your rocks off; I don't know for certain. It's not like there's a guidebook for ghost orgasms, you know." "But her hair . . . ." "Well, I didn't want to leave her tied up, and it had gotten pretty tangled, so I had to cut her free. Don't worry about it. I know her type -- thinking she's a dom, when she really wants to be a sub. She's gonna come looking for you, and she'll probably throw herself at your feet." "But I don't want that," Jason whined. "I don't want someone who's gonna be so submissive to me." "Then tell her 'No,'" Heather replied with a smile. "That will just drive her into a frenzy, and she'll want you all the more. Anyway, the contest will be starting soon, and I want to have a little more fun before then. Let's go." Heather unlocked the door, turned out the light, and left the still sleeping Judi behind. She walked back to the dance and began to mingle about, surveying the crowd. Jason could sense that she was looking for someone in particular, but he didn't know who. He tried to ask Heather, but found that he couldn't talk. All he was able to do was to go along with whatever Heather was wanting to do. And he had a pretty good idea what that was. Soon, Heather had begun to focus her attentions on one person in particular, a very handsome young man dressed in a Zorro costume, complete with mask. "Jason," she whispered, "just who is this vision of manhood?" Jason found himself suddenly able to speak. "That's 'Three-F,'" he blurted out a trifle too loudly. Fortunately, the ambient noise in the room was louder, still, and his outburst went unheard by all save Heather. "What an unusual name," she replied. "Tell me more." "That's not his name," Jason whispered back, "it's a nickname. His name's Lance Hapwell." "Well, don't keep me in suspense; why the nickname?" "It's based on his motto -- 'Feed 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em.'" "Well," Heather said, a look of total wantonness forming on her face, "I think it's high time that I meet him, don't you?" "No, I don't!" Jason tried to say, but found that, once again, he couldn't talk. Jason was fairly intelligent, as hormone-crazed teens go, and it didn't take him long to figure out just exactly what was about to happen, or why Heather had forced him to silence. And he was dreading what was soon to transpire. "Hi there, 'Zorro,'" Heather said with a breathy tone that practically dripped with sex. Lance turned from the girl he'd been hitting on and focused on Heather instead. "Hi yourself," he responded. "I'm Lance, but I don't recognize you. You are . . . ." "Heather Campbell," Heather replied with a demure fluttering of her lashes. "Duh! I could tell that, but who are _you_?" "Why don't you let me show you . . . in private?" "Sure!" "How totally predictable," Heather thought with a laugh, as she began walking towards the gymnasium exits once more. Lance followed her like a puppy. They walked down the empty halls until they came upon the teacher's lounge. The door was locked, but Heather simply stretched a part of her hand through the crack between the door and the frame and turned the knob from the inside. Lance had been so preoccupied with playing with Heather's tits that he'd never noticed what she'd done. Once inside the room, Lance tried to take over. He reached out and tried to undo Heather's corset, but she pushed him away with an impossibly strong hand. "Not so fast, 'Zorro,'" she whispered. "Start off slow. Like this." She pulled him close and kissed him deeply, allowing her tongue to explore every crevice of his mouth. She then used the same trick on her tongue that she had with her hand earlier, and extended it out from Jason's own tongue so that it was actually touching the back of Lance's throat. Lance was not prepared for this deep of a kiss, and his gag reflex kicked in. "Sorry," Heather laughed, "I didn't mean to get carried away," knowing full well that she had. While Heather was busy teasing Lance, Jason was busy trying not to be ill. He had absolutely no interest in guys, and had never been able to understand just why the girls at school found Lance so attractive that they'd practically climb over each other to get into bed with him. But he was about to learn. Heather and Lance embraced again, and Lance began to place little kisses along Heather's neck, jaw, and collarbone. Each kiss was coupled with a little flick of his tongue, and each flick was sending shivers of ecstasy down Heather's spine and, from there, into Jason's spine. Lance began to slowly undo Heather's corset, and, this time, she let him. As her clothing began to fall, piece by piece, to the floor, she found herself getting more and more receptive to Lance's ministrations. He had never met her before, but he was seemingly able to sense every one of her pleasure points. The thrill that Heather was feeling was not lost on Jason, either, who, although disgusted to be in the arms of another man, was paying very close attention to what Lance was doing, just in case he ever got the chance to repeat these actions himself. Soon, Heather was completely disrobed, and Lance found himself naked as well, except for his black mask. He'd been so caught up in removing Heather's clothing that he'd never noticed that she'd removed his. He was incredibly turned on, and confirmed that Heather was, too, with just a quick flick of his finger. "I hope you're planning on using some form of protection," Heather purred, almost totally blissed out from Lance's kisses and caresses. "'Zorro' is always prepared," Lance smiled, as he produced a condom. Heather laughed as she noticed that a large black "Z" had been written on either size of the package. "Oh, 'Zorro,'" she cooed, "mark me with your sword!" ********** Heather had put her costume back on and was once again fixing her makeup in the mirror when Jason began to stir. "Oh God," he said. "That was incredible!" "I hope you were paying attention," Heather said with a smile as she finished straightening out her hair. "Lance may be pretty full of himself, but he's one hell of a good fuck." "Is that why you picked him? So I could learn what to do?" "Don't flatter yourself; I picked him for me." Heather could see a subtle change in the image in the mirror and realized that she'd hurt Jason's feelings. "Well, I guess I picked him for both of us," she admitted. "But I picked Judi for you." "But I told you . . . ." "Don't worry," Heather said with a smile. "If you treat her nice, and I believe you will, she won't act like a dominant or a submissive with you. We've gotta hurry, though; the winners of the costume contest are about to be announced." Heather left the teacher's lounge, locking the door behind her, and leaving a still-sleeping Lance behind. "He should wake up in an hour or so," she explained to Jason as they hurried down the hall. "And, by then, we should be gone, so he'll never know who his mystery date was." As they reentered the gymnasium, Mr. Wyler was just calling the crowd to attention. "Please, people," he sputtered into the microphone, "if you'll just be quiet for five minutes, we can announce the winners of the costume contest, and then you can get back to dancing." The throng of teenagers began to grow silent. "That's better," Mr. Wyler said. "Thank you. When I call out your costume name, please come to the stage. At that point, we will ask you to divulge your true identity. "In third place . . . 'Caged Girl Carried by Gorilla.'" Thunderous applause met the announcement, and the young woman made her way to the stage. Jason had to admit that her costume certainly was clever; she'd made fake legs for herself and put them inside the cage and put her own legs inside the gorilla costume legs. She then stuck herself inside the cage, and had the empty top part of the gorilla costume strapped to the outside of the cage, giving the illusion that the gorilla was carrying around a cage with a woman trapped inside. "And you are?" asked Mr. Wyler. "Donna Castleton," the girl replied to more applause. "Well, Donna," Mr. Wyler said, "you've won this nice plaque, plus a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Antoine's Restaurant." "Thanks, everyone!" Donna said as she stepped back from the stage. "Now, in second place . . . 'The Cyber-werewolf.'" From the back of the room, a huge creature began to make its way towards the stage. The applause was incredible, and Jason chimed in as well. Even before the creature got to the stage, Jason had figured out who was inside the costume, so when the creature identified itself as "Randy VanKlein," Jason just shouted out louder. Randy was a freshman this year, and would likely take Jason's place as the reigning costume champion in the years to come. After Mr. Wyler handed Randy his second place plaque and fifty- dollar gift certificate, Jason started to feel butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He'd only felt this nervous about a contest once before -- his freshman year, when his dynasty of costume mastery had started. He recognized the quality of the other two costumes, and began to doubt that he and Heather could have won. But then, he heard Mr. Wyler say, "And this year's winning costume is . . . 'Heather Campbell,'" and the butterflies vanished completely. Heather took over and walked them to the stage amidst deafening applause, wolf whistles, and cat calls. As Heather walked to the stage, several people could be heard commenting that they'd expected Jason Landers to win, but that they hadn't seen him all night. Jason grinned at that, and Heather let it shine through. Once on the stage, after the applause died down, Mr. Wyler asked Jason the same question that he had asked the previous two winners. "And you are?" Jason froze. He didn't know how to respond. But Heather did. She reached up and placed her fingers at the collar around her slim neck and pulled. She willed her head to separate from the rest of her body, then simply pulled it up and over Jason's own head. "I'm Jason Landers," Jason said, finding his voice now that Heather had revealed her illusion to the group. The room fell completely silent. It grew so quiet that the few remaining crickets of the season could be heard chirping away outside of the gymnasium. Jason looked around at the collectively stunned and shocked students. He spotted Judi Evans, whose mouth was hanging agape. He stared at her for a moment, then smiled. Slowly, she smiled back, a knowing, sexy, wonderful smile, and then she started to clap. A few others around her followed suit, then a few more. Soon, every student in the place was applauding as hard as they possibly could. Even Mr. Wyler, as uptight as he was, was applauding. He handed Jason a large trophy and a hundred- dollar gift certificate; as he did so, the volume of applause rose even more, and Jason was overwhelmed. Heather took over again and turned around, then quickly placed her head back over Jason's. She walked off the stage and into the crowd, eminently pleased with herself. She was heading for the exit when she found Judi standing in front of her. Her hair, which Heather had hacked up to free her from her bonds, didn't look as bad as Jason had first thought when he'd seen her lying on the floor, and she certainly didn't seem to mind that it had been cut. Judi came up to Heather and put her arms over Heather's shoulders. "I'd never have guessed, in a million years, that you were Jason Landers," Judi said. "You were incredible." Although other people around them heard what she said, only Jason, Heather, and Judi knew exactly what Judi meant by that. "Can I call you sometime?" "Sure," Heather said, answering for Jason. "I'd like that a lot." ********** Back in Jason's room, Heather was beginning the process of removing herself from Jason. First, she removed the costume she had been wearing and inserted it back into the mirror. Next, she picked up the broken eight-ball. She found the message object and put it back in the tube. Then, with a slight waive of her hand, the lens reappeared over the tube, and the tube itself began to fill up with the inky black water. Once that repair was complete, she reached out and touched the mirror over Jason's dresser. Slowly, she began to peel away from Jason, although she remained on Jason's side of the mirror. A few moments later, they had separated. "Heather," Jason began, "I don't know how to thank you. This has been the wildest night of my life." Heather came over and hugged Jason warmly, the way one friend hugs another when they haven't seen each other for a long time. "Jason," she said after a few moments, "the pleasure has been all mine. It's been nice -- real nice -- to be flesh and blood again, if even for a little while." "Am I ever gonna see you again?" Jason asked, sadness tingeing his voice. "Sure. I fixed the eight-ball, and you can ask me any question you want with it. And, if you ask real nice, I'll come back for a visit. In fact, I'll be back when you use that gift certificate at Antoine's." Heather reached out and touched the mirror once more, and this time, she began to be drawn into it. Just before she was drawn in completely, she reached out and grabbed the first-place trophy, taking it with her into the mirror. "Hey!" Jason shouted. "That's my trophy! Give it back!" "Sorry," Heather said with a grin, just before she faded from view. "It's mine; _I_ won it. After all, possession _is_ nine tenths of the law!" ~Fin~