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SRU: Spell Responsibly free porn video
When I travel, I keep a notebook in my car, so I can work
on stories when I stop for meals or what have you. This is
the latest one from that process.
SRU: Spell Responsibly
By Ellie Dauber (c) 2002
Carl Winchell sat on the edge of his desk and scanned his
class, third year English at Prescott High, looking for a
suitable victim. That lump in the third row hunched down
behind his textbook. Winchell could almost smell the scent
of fear about him. Yes, he would more than do.
"Mr. Lasky, can you tell the class what 'trochaic' means?"
Winchell was a tall, slender man with the straight dark
brown hair, high forehead, and the aquiline nose of too
many generations of aristocratic inbreeding.
Sid Lasky, a chunky 16-year old with curly brown hair,
looked up at the sound of his name. "Sir?"
"Come on now, Mr. Lasky, 'trochaic'; what is it?"
"I-I don't know, sir."
That should have been enough; Winchell should have moved on
to another student, but he was having fun.
"Try, Mr. Lasky; guess if you must. 'Trochaic'; only please
don't say that it's something you can't have and eat it,
too." He paused for the laugh from the few students who
might have caught the pun. Then he added, "Although,
judging by that stomach of yours, maybe you _have_ been
eating it, too."
This time, the laughter was louder, partly in relief that
the laugher wasn't the target. It was enough to satisfy
Winchell.
"Ms. Ferris, do you know?"
A pretty brunette in a blue and green cheerleader sweater
shook her head, "No."
"Mr. Giacomo?" A stocky boy shrugged.
"Mr. Pratt?"
"A metrical foot consisting of one stressed note followed
by an unstressed note."
William S. Pratt, no one ever called him "Bill" or "Billy,"
was a tall, almost too slender boy. William made up for his
lack of anything that his classmates would have called "a
life," made up for it by all but memorizing the textbook
for every class and dreaming of a life as an actor.
"Correct." The bell rang before Winchell could ask another
question. "Maybe now, more of you will read the assigned
pages. Just to make sure, everyone will turn in a written
copy of the terms in pages 107-108 and their definitions."
He smiled as the class groaned, while they gathered their
books and filed out of the room. There were fifty terms on
those pages.
***
"Man, Sid, Winchell was all over you today." Harry Daniels,
a tall, stocky boy in a Metallica T-shirt and frayed jeans,
walked over to his best friend.
"Tell me about it," Sid said. "I guess it was my turn again
today."
"Yeah, but that crack about your weight was a low blow,
even for him."
"I know, but I can't help it. I always put on weight after
football season ends." He sighed. "I can't sass him back.
He'll take that as a challenge and really tear into me."
Harry reached over and patted Sid's stomach. "You could
always diet."
"Yeah, what color?" Sid felt better, and he punched Harry
in the shoulder as a way of saying thanks. Harry caught him
in a headlock, and the two friends laughed as they wrestled
their way to their next class.
***
Sid's good humor didn't last.
Mort Lasky found his son curled up in a ball watching TV.
"You okay, Sid?" he asked, as he took off his jacket.
"Anything bothering you?"
Sid shrugged. "No, I'm okay, Dad."
"You sure? You look like you've all but tied yourself in a
knot over something."
"I'm fine, Dad." He pretended to look at his wristwatch.
"I'd better go upstairs and get started on my homework
before supper."
"Homework? And you're going willingly? Now I _know_
something's wrong."
"There's nothing wrong, Dad. It's just -- Mr. Winchell gave
us a long assignment for tomorrow, and I want to get done
with it."
"Winchell? He's your English teacher, isn't he? How are you
doing in his class?"
"Yeah, I've got him for English. I think I'm doing okay."
"But..."
"What do you mean, Dad?"
"'I'm doing okay in English', but... I want to know what
the 'but' is." He folded his hands over his chest. "And I'm
going to keep asking until you tell me."
Sid sighed. "Okay, okay. The 'but' is Mr. Winchell. I've
been his special target lately. It seems like there isn't a
day that goes by without him making me the 'but,' the butt
of some joke."
"Any reason why? You having been making trouble, have you?
No acting up or goofing off in his class?"
"No, sir. I mean, I'm no angel, but I haven't pulled
anything -- not in his class anyway. Mr. Winchell has a rep
around school of coming down real hard on anybody who tries
anything in his class."
"Any you haven't tried anything to get even for what he's
doing?"
Sid grinned -- just for a moment. "I've thought about it. I
don't know; maybe if I could think of something I thought I
could get away with."
"Well, you can stop thinking of anything. I'll take some
time off and go see him tomorrow during my lunch hour."
"I don't know, Dad. I don't want him to get mad at me."
"Sid, relax. I sell cars, remember. I make my living
getting people to like me."
***
"Mr. Winchell?"
Carl Winchell looked up from his desk. He'd gotten a note
that some parent would be coming in to see him during his
lunch period. It was annoying, but, at least, it got him
out of cafeteria duty. Trying to teach these kids was bad
enough. Trying to eat one's lunch while this rabble
shrieked and flirted and did everything except sit quietly
and consume food was something he'd take just about any
excuse to miss.
"Yes, I'm Carl Winchell, and you are..."
"Mort, Mort Lasky. Sid Lasky is my son." Mort smiled and
stuck out his hand. Winchell nodded, making a point of not
shaking hands.
"Sid? Oh, yes; third period English." Winchell could see
the resemblance, now; same sticky body, same large nose and
curly brown hair. The father was a bit chunkier, and there
was some gray in the hair.
"I guess. Anyway, Sid says he's been having a bit of a
problem in your class lately, and I thought --"
"I don't tutor, Mr. Lasky, and I certainly don't fix
grades. If your Sid's having a problem, then he should
study harder."
"It's not the material that he's having trouble with --
though, I suppose he could always study more. He says that
there's some sort of problem between him and you. I came to
ask what it is; see if I couldn't, maybe, smooth things
out."
"I don't believe that there is anything to 'smooth out." If
your son has told you some lie about how I treat him in
class --"
"My son isn't a liar." Mort stiffened for a moment, then he
forced his body to relax, his face to smile. "Look, Mr.
Winchell, we seem to have gotten off to a bad start. I'm
not accusing you of anything... It's just that my son feels
that there's something going on I thought if we could just
talk a little, we could work it out. I mean, don't we both
want Sid to do well in your class?"
"Frankly, Mr. Lasky, I'm not sure that I care. I present
the material. If your son doesn't understand it -- well,
there _are_ remedial classes for our _slower_ students."
"Are you saying my kid's retarded?"
"No, Mr. Lasky, should I?" This was much more fun than
cafeteria duty.
"Why you lousy son of a bitch." Mort raised a fist and took
a step forward.
"I wouldn't, Mr. Lasky. You might get in a lucky punch or
two, but I've got a _very_ good lawyer."
The word "lawyer" made Mort stop in his tracks. Jenny had
had a very good lawyer, too. That was why Mort and Sid were
living in a four-room apartment after the divorce, while
she'd been free to sell the house Mort had been born in and
move to the West Coast. The only reason that Sid was still
with him was because Jenny didn't want to be saddled with a
teenaged son.
"We'll... we'll just see what your boss, the principal, has
to say about this."
"I doubt that he'll have very much to say. It's your word
against mine, and I've got twelve years tenure."
Mort felt crushed. The bastard was probably right, but he
wasn't going to show any sign of defeat.
Winchell just smiled. "If there's nothing else, my tea is
getting cold."
He took a sip and continued with his lunch. He never even
looked up to see just when Mort left.
"Third period tomorrow should be a great deal of fun." He
grinned in anticipation.
***
Winchell had been right about one thing; Mr. Snowdon, the
principal wasn't able to do anything.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lasky. You're not the first parent to
complain about Carl Winchell, but we've never been able to
get any real proof. His being tenured doesn't help either.
The union is very tough about what it takes to get rid of
one of its members."
Snowdon was a short, balding man in his late forties who
wore his open vest, wrinkled off-white shirt, and loosened
tie as it they were some sort of uniform.
"Great. So he gets away with all the harm he's doing to my
son."
"I'm afraid so, and I'm truly sorry about that. It'll take
a higher power than myself to get Carl Winchell the sort of
punishment he deserves."
"Or a lower power." Mort shrugged not wanting to admit
total defeat. "Maybe he'll come into my lot one day looking
to buy a car." He chuckled at the thought of selling the
man a true lemon of a vehicle.
"Perhaps. In any event, we're near the end of the marking
period. If you want, I can transfer Sid to another class
when the new period starts -- about two weeks."
"That might be the best answer, Mr. Snowdon. Let me ask
Sid."
"Fine. Let me know any time in the next week or so. It will
take me a few days to do the paperwork."
"It always does. Thanks, Mr. Snowdon; I'll let you know
either way."
***
Mort appreciated the offer from Mr. Snowdon, but somehow it
felt like it made Sid out to be the one at fault. That was
hardly fair.
Mort pulled into the parking lot of a mall on the way back
to the car lot. He had planned to get his lunch at a drive
through. Now, he needed to sit down and relax for a bit.
He'd hardly have a good afternoon if he went back to work
in his current state of mind. An angry salesman sold very
few cars. He found a spot not too far from the food court
entrance and headed inside. It was after 1 PM by now, and
the court was nearly empty. Mort made a beeline for "The
Colonel's" figuring that he could work out his anger on
some extra crispy chicken.
Only, "The Colonel's" wasn't there. Instead, Mort saw a
curio store or novelty shop of some kind in its place. He
stopped, trying to understand where "The Colonel's" had
gone. He could smell fried chicken. He even saw the
familiar red and white striped boxes on a nearby table.
Yet, this store, whatever kind of a place it was, was there
in the middle of the Food Court. Mort's curiosity got the
best of him.
"Maybe they'll know what's going on," he thought as he
walked through what had to be the most realistic imitation
wood doors he'd ever seen.
The place was laid out remarkably well. It actually seemed
bigger on the inside. Mort walked around looking for a
salesman or clerk. The place sold the weirdest stuff,
videos, children's toys, some sort of inflatable goods.
There was a long rack of costumes in one aisle, Playmate,
French maid, even a little Cupid. He saw a stack of used
books, some of them looking very old, on one shelf, with a
couple of cameras next to them.
"I think you've looked around enough, Mort." came a
friendly sounding voice from the back of the store.
Mort followed the voice down the aisle. A man was sitting
behind a counter at the back of the store. He was polishing
what looked like a small jade stature of a woman with six
arms. He set it down behind the counter as Mort approached.
"You know, I was beginning to wonder if you were even going
to come into my little shop."
Mort looked at the man. He was wearing a blue robe that
looked a nit like Mort's old flannel bathrobe, and he had a
mass of curly white hair framing a face that could be
anywhere from forty to ninety.
"Or even older, Mort," the man said.
"How'd you know my name?"
The old man sighed. "Sometimes I'm sorry I took that sign
down. I'm a wizard, Mort. I used a spell to read your mind,
so I could impress you with the knowledge of who you were."
He sighed again. "It seemed like a good idea, but I still
have to explain it almost every time."
Mort laughed. "You're a wizard, then. It's a good gimmick
for all the stuff you've got in here."
"I like it. I just sit here and wait for curious folks like
you to come in. Then I tell them their name and we talk
about the problem they want to solve."
"And you have the solution, of course."
"Of course. What sort of wizard would I be if I didn't?"
"Oh, man, and I thought I had a good sales line."
The old man scratched his chin. "I'll take that for the
compliment you intended, Mort. Your Jenny always said you
had a silver tongue."
"How'd you know about Jenny?"
"Read my lips, Mort. I'm... a... wizard."
"You know, I'm almost convinced you are."
"Let's go for the clincher then. Would you like something
to settle things with Mr. Winchell?"
"I'll be -- you've _got_ to be real. I would love to settle
that guy's hash. An arrogant SOB like that shouldn't be
teaching kids. A teacher's supposed to make kids want to
learn, not embarrass them when they don't."
The old man cocked an eye and looked at Mort as if he had
seen him for the first time. "Okay, I think I have just
what's needed here, but I'll only sell it to you if you
tell me that you're willing to take the full responsibility
for the results."
"Mister, that is one crazy line you've got. You'll sell it,
but only if I promise to use it responsibly. Is _that_ what
you're telling me?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying. Are you still interested?"
"Maybe." Salesman's caution took over. A pig in a poke was
something you sold, not something you bought. "What are you
selling, and how much is it going to cost?"
The old man reached behind the counter and pulled out...
"A crystal ball?" Mort said. "I think your line just ran
out."
"No, no, look closer."
Mort looked. A clear plastic -- maybe glass -- sphere about
four inches in diameter sat on top of a small hexagonal
black box. A small bust of William Shakespeare was set
inside the sphere. A brass key stuck out of a hole in the
side of the box.
"When you wind the key," the old man said, "the box plays
'Greensleeves'. Do you know the tune?"
"I think so." Mort hummed a few notes. "Well, it certainly
seems to be the appropriate gift for an English teacher.
What does it do -- besides playing a tune, I mean?"
"It solves your problem -- yours and your son's. He has to
be there when the music plays for the magic to work. The
three of you should be alone, though. Just let the music
play, and things will be in an entirely different
situation."
Mort shrugged. "That makes as much sense as anything else
I've heard in here. Okay, what's it cost?"
"Since there's the three of you involved, let's say $54."
"I don't get the connection, but okay." He pulled out his
wallet and handed the old man three $20 bills. He looked
down at the odd music box as he put his wallet back in his
pocket. "Are you going to put it in a bag or something?"
"I thought you were having your meal to go. Do you want it
in a bag?"
Mort looked up. He was standing at the counter of "The
Colonel's." A short Black woman in a KFC uniform had just
put a box of chicken and a large soda on his tray. The
music box was on a corner of the tray wrapped in green
paper. There was a note attached to it. "Umm, no," he said
in surprise. I'll be eating it here."
Mort picked up the tray and walked over to a table. He read
the note as soon as he sat down.
Mort
I knew how hungry you were, so I took a short cut.
Your change is on the tray. It's the difference
between the $60 you gave me and the cost of the music
box _and_ your lunch.
Remember, all three of you have to be in the room for
the magic of the music box to work. What happens then
is _your_ responsibility.
Now do you believe that I'm a Wizard?
The old man's -- the wizard's signature was in a florid
script that looked like something from the medieval
manuscripts he and Jenny had seen on that trip to London
about two years before they split up. He'd won the trip for
having the highest sales rate of anyone in the five-state
district.
"Well I'll be..." Mort said with a satisfied grin.
Now that he knew he had real magic, he couldn't wait to use
it. He had some time off, and he was already over his quota
for the month, so he called in to the lot and took the rest
of the afternoon off. "Personal business with Sid," he told
his manager. He ate a relaxed lunch and window-shopped
until about 2:45. Then he drove back to the school.
***
Mort was waiting when Sid and his friends came out of the
building about 3 PM. "Hi, Dad," Sid said. "What... what are
you doing here?"
"I came by on some business," Mort said. The truth would
only embarrass Sid in front of the other boys. "I... umm,
heard that the school might be in the market for some new
cars for drivers' ed. Can you show me where the teacher is,
and, maybe, give me a handle on how to talk to him? You can
do your homework while you wait for me, and I'll spring for
Chinese for supper after I'm done."
Sid shrugged. "Okay, I guess, but I get to pick the
restaurant. I heard about a great new Szechuan place over
on Ridge Avenue." He said goodbye to his friends and led
his father into the building.
"Are you really looking for Mr. Kamatsu at Driver's Ed,
Dad?" Sid asked once they were inside.
"No, son," Mort answered. "I want to talk to Mr. Winchell
again." He began walking down the hall.
"Again? You talked to him already? What did he say?"
"That arrogant son of a bitch wouldn't even listen." He
held up the giftwrapped box. "But _this_ should fix
things."
"You're gonna try and bribe him? Oh, boy that'll really
mess things up."
"I'm not sure how, Sid, but trust me, this will work. Just
don't ask me how or ask where I got it." Mort stopped at
the door to Winchell's classroom and looked inside. "Good,
he's still here. C'mon, Sid."
Carl Winchell looked up from the papers on his desk when he
heard the door open. "Well, well, if it isn't the Laskys --
father and son this time. I _am_ blessed. What can I do for
you two?"
Mort decided to try one last time. "I thought maybe we got
off to a bad start when we talked before --"
"No," Winchell said. "I think we understood each other
perfectly. You wanted me to play some sort of favorites
with your son."
Mort shook his head. "No I just wanted him treated fair."
"Fair_ly_," Winchell said.
"Fairly. Anyway, I figure that maybe some of it was my
fault, so I brought something by way of an apology." He put
the package down on the desk.
"I don't think that even _I_ could fix the syntax of that
sentence." Winchell picked up the box. "A present, you say.
It won't change anything, but -- just out of curiosity --
let's see what it is." He clawed at the paper, tearing it
at a corner. He worked the rip until the paper was
completely torn away. "Hmm, Shakespeare. At least you knew
enough to get something vaguely appropriate."
"I... uhh... thought you'd like it," Mort said.
Winchell lifted the box and turned it in his hand. "What
does it do? Snow on him when I shake it?" He frowned when
they failed to appreciate his wit.
"It's a music box. You just turn that key," he pointed to
the side of the box, "and it plays a nice tune."
"'Yankee Doodle', no doubt." Winchell turned the key three
times and set the music box down on the desk.
"'Greensleeves', well, that is a sur --" He seemed to
freeze in place, his mouth half open and a blank expression
on his face."
"What do you think of that, Sid," Mort turned to look at
his son. Sid didn't move. He seemed as paralyzed as his
teacher. Mort braced himself, waiting for the effect to hit
him as well.
Nothing happened to him.
The music grew louder. Mort looked back at Winchell. The
teacher began to glow. He stood up and walked two steps
from his desk. His expression didn't change, but there was
something different about his face. It seemed smoother,
less lined, and thinner. Was he losing weight? No, the gray
in his hair was darkening to the original color. Mort
realized that the man was getting younger.
When they had met, Mort would have guessed Carl Winchell's
age at about 40, the same as his own. Now the teacher
looked to be in his early 20s -- and still getting younger.
His face softened even more as he slipped towards his
teens. His five o'clock shadow lightened, then disappeared
completely.
By now, Winchell was young enough that his body was
actually smaller. His clothes shrank with him. His face had
the roundness of youth, and he looked to be no older than
Sid was.
'A high school kid,' Mort smiled at the irony.
The process continued a few minutes more. By the time it
stopped, Winchell was several inches smaller than Sid.
There was a hint of baby fat in his cheeks.
'Fourteen, at most,' Mort thought. 'He's gonna have to go
all the way through high school again, and it looks like
he's small for his age, too.'
The glow around Winchell suddenly expanded to include Sid
as well. Winchell's features shifted until he was the older
boy's twin.
Mort remembered the Wizard's words. "He said I'd be
responsible for what happened. I guess I'm Carol's father,
now."
Carol? That didn't sound right, or did it?
As Mort watched, Winchell's -- Carl's -- Carol's hair grew
down past her shoulders. Her nose grew a bit smaller, while
her lips became fuller. Her body was already slender, but
now male angles softened into female curves. Breasts grew
out beneath her man's short, and her slacks grew tight as
her hips and butt widened. There was no sign of a male
bulge in the crotch.
Carol's clothes began to change. Her slacks shortened,
rising above her knees to reveal a feminine curve to her
legs. The sleeves of her jacket vanished as it merged with
her slacks to become a blue denim jumper. The material of
her shirt softened as a white, tailored man's shirt became
a pink cotton T-shirt. Beneath the shirt, Mort could see
the outline of Carol's undershirt shift to become a 32-A
bra. Her man's tie was now a dark blue scarf. Her socks
shifted color from black to a pastel blue, as her cordovan
oxfords became a pair of blue Lady Keds.
Her hair parted in the middle to become a pair of ponytails
with blue scrunchies holding them together at the ends. Her
eyes seemed to grow bigger as eyeshadow appeared on them.
She now had blusher on her cheeks and a pale pink lipstick
on her mouth. The effect was both innocent and sexy.
Mort looked at his attractive new daughter. "Whoa, Cindy
and I will need baseball bats to keep the boys away from
here."
Then he felt a shiver of panic as he realized what he'd
said. He'd been so busy watching Carol that he hadn't
noticed that Cindy had changed -- was changing -- as well.
His -- her hair was a mass of tiny curls, and she was
wearing lipstick and eyeshadow. Even as he watched, her
figure developed the curves of a young woman, full breasts
swelled out beneath what was now a cheerleader's sweater,
while her widening hips were inside a pair of feminine cut
jeans that looked almost painted on. She was wearing low
heels and some kind of stocking or pantyhose. Mort could
see her toes, complete with a dark red polish, through the
sheer material.
"No!" Mort grabbed the music box hoping to reverse Cindy's
transformation. The box glowed again. The glow moved up
Mort's arm then flowed out over his body. Mort felt a
tingling, as the room seemed to grow bigger.
'Oh, Lord,' he thought. 'High school, here I come.'
The sensation of shrinking stopped a few moments later. He
only seemed to be a few inches shorter. Mort looked down at
his hands and watched as they grew smaller, as his fingers
grew more slender, and as a layer of pink polish formed on
his nails.
His clothes were too big for him. The material felt odd
against his now hairless body. His scalp tingled, and he
felt a pulling as it grew longer, down over his ears and
almost to his neck. There was a new tingling in his chest.
His shirt was suddenly tight. He looked down and saw the
fabric straining against a pair of rapidly growing breasts.
His waist narrowed as his hips swelled. His pants fell past
them, pooling around his trim ankles.
Mort felt his manhood stiffen. It was reassuring, but then
the feeling changed, faded. He reached down, pushing a hand
against his briefs. It was still there, but it was getting
smaller. He reached inside, only to feel the last remnant
sink down into a sensitive vertical slit between his --
between her legs.
She twitched as she felt something on his face. Make-up,
she was wearing make-up. Her tongue tasted lipstick. When
she blinked, she could see the mascara on her lashes.
Mort's tie shrank down into a thin silvered chain. Her
jacket transformed into a green cashmere sweater. Her shirt
grew longer, down past her knees, turning into a matching
green shirtdress. The weight on her chest lessened as her
undershirt became a silky bra, and her briefs transformed
into a matching pair of panties. Her male pants faded away
as her socks grew up her legs to merge at her waist into a
pair of pantyhose. Black loafers became green sandals with
a sensible one-inch heel.
"They'll never believe this at the lounge," she said,
amazed at her soft alto voice. "Lounge?"
Yes, the teacher's lounge. Mort had never worked at a car
lot because Mort had never been born -- even if she did
remember him, just as she remembered -- she knew what had
happened. Her revenge against Carl Winchell had cost the
school an English teacher. Her responsibility as Marta was
to be his replacement -- to have always been the teacher
instead of Carl Winchell. Carl was gone, too, replaced by
her younger daughter, Carol Lasky. She still went by her
married name to match her daughters, even though she and...
Johnny was divorced, and he was living on the West Coast.
Marts smiled at the thought of her ex-wife suddenly
becoming her ex-husband.
"Hey, Mom, you ready?" Marta was shaken out of her thoughts
by her older daughter's voice.
"Yeah, Mom, it's after 4:30." Carol always hated when her
mother stayed so long at work.
Marta closed the grade book and stuck it and the papers
she'd been working on into her briefcase. "I guess I can
finish these when we get home."
Since the responsibility was hers, neither of her daughters
remembered their previous lives. Part of her responsibility
would be to help them become the best sort of person -- the
best sort of women -- they could be.
"Just remember, Mom," Cindy said, "we won't be home soon.
You did promise us Chinese -- and I get to pick the place."
The End
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