6. Becoming Cassie
BECOMING CASSIE
Kayleigh
The house is dark and silent. Perfect. I let myself in, the lock whispering shut behind me, and stand for a moment in the hushed entryway, shirt clinging damply to my spine.
No voices float from the living room, no TV glow from down the hall, no mother’s remonstration about the lateness of the hour.
Victoria and Henry are out for some benefit, a pre-auction party for the Tatler event, so it’s just me and the solemn, empty house.
I leave my shoes at the door and pad upstairs and down the hallway, past the glossy, unlovable oil paintings my stepfather bought in bulk.
My old room is at the far end, in its own little nook really, and when I close the door behind me I feel the temperature drop by a whole degree.
The space is tidy, too girly for a woman my age—white lacquer desk, a wall of books sorted by color, a canopy bed that I never once used for a sleepover but which remains, I guess, for lack of energy to make a change.
The only sign of real life is the mess on the vanity: a drift of cosmetic bottles, stray bobby pins, a tangle of cheap jewelry, and a ring of dustless oval where my phone lives.
I toss my bag onto the bed, let my jeans and t-shirt tumble off my body and pool at my feet, and then just stand there, toes curled into the plush shag rug, staring at myself in the mirror above the vanity.
My hair, limp from a day of humidity, is a pale corona around my face, haloed by the LED bulbs Victoria insisted on (something about “optimal makeup lighting,” though she never does her own makeup here).
My shoulders are narrow, my Double D’s almost too big for my frame, my waist tight and neat, hips flaring out in a way that people call “womanly.” Every inch of me is soft, rounded, and plush. But my eyes are hesitant. Why?
I don’t know, but I see a girl who looks like she’s waiting for someone else to show up and live her life for her.
I see a girl who could never, in a million years, compete with the Cassie's of the world.
But then, what if I could?
After all, I’m sick of always being second place.
I’m sick of always being the “safe choice,” and the “boring pick” when hot girls like Cassie are out there snagging men like my gorgeous stepbrother.
And let’s face it: the Trevor’s of the world don’t exactly want someone like me, who’s all nice with no spice.
They want the sassy smiles, voluptuous figures, and slutty outfits.
Too bad it’s not me.
But what if I could make it me?
I pick up my phone and swipe the screen.
I scroll to the wedding photos—Victoria’s stiff in the church pew, my stepdad wolfing down wedding cake, me blurred and smiling in the background—but it’s not those I linger on.
It’s the pictures of my stepbrother and his date that make me go alert: Trevor and Cassie, framed by the floral arch, her body poured into that red slip like it’s the only thing keeping her molecules together.
Her eyes are wide and laughing, her mouth a perfect glossy bow.
My stepbrother is beside her, hand resting possessively at her waist (on her ass, really), head cocked at an angle that’s both predatory and amused.
Even in still frame, you can see the way he looks at her—like he’s a wolf, and she’s going to be devoured when they get home.
I stare at that photo for a long time. I try to figure out what it is about women like that that makes Trevor pay attention. Is it the big tits? The hair? The confidence, the willingness to look like she’d eat you alive and then ask for seconds?
I set the phone down and lean close to the mirror, examining my own face under the harsh white light.
Not bad, I think. My lips are full, my nose a little upturned, my eyes a limpid blue that sometimes look grey depending on the day.
But it’s all so muted. I remember Cassie’s look at the wedding—vivid, heavy, theatrical—and suddenly I want to know what it’s like to turn myself into that kind of woman, even if just for one night. Even if just for myself.
I pull on a silky robe over my lingerie and sit down at the vanity.
Then, I reach for an eyeshadow palette, the one Victoria bought me for graduation, its colors untouched except for the safest, most boring shades.
I choose a subtle, metallic brown and pack it on, then add a heavy flick of liquid eyeliner, bolder and thicker than I’ve ever dared.
I go for the false lashes next, trembling as I glue them down, watching as they turn my gaze into something cartoonish, yet hot.
A few seconds later, I’m painting my lips—first with a mauve pencil, then with a slick, shiny gloss I found in a clearance bin at the drugstore.
Now the hair.
I wet a brush and yank it through the snarls, then flip my head and start blow-drying.
Cassie’s hair was loose and bombshell, a tangle of deliberately messy, platinum waves, a la Pamela Anderson in her prime.
I try to mimic it, scrunching and spraying until the blonde falls wild around my shoulders.
In the mirror, my face looks unfamiliar: louder, older, almost trashy.
But that’s what guys want, right? Hell, my stepbrother brought a whore to a family event. That’s definitely what men want.
My eyes gleam with something I haven’t seen before as I look back at myself, cheeks flushed.
For a minute, I just stare at the girl I’ve created.
And I like her.
She’s nothing like the Kayleigh who works at the plant store or eats mac and cheese alone at the kitchen counter or cries at movies with animals in them.
She’s the kind of girl who could fuck your boyfriend and not feel guilty.
She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t just watch from the sidelines; she’s the main event.
I angle my phone, open the camera, and snap a few pictures.
At first I just do my face, head tilted, tongue out, the classic thirst-trap poses.
But then I get daring: I pose with my shoulders bare, turn sideways to show off the line of my chest, even arch my back to push my boobs up.
The robe slips from my shoulders and I don’t bother to pull it back up.
My tits look like they’re about to spill out of the too-small bra I have on, the mounds huge and creamy.
My pulse races. The more I see myself through the camera, the more I want to see.
One selfie becomes ten, then twenty.
Slowly, I unbuckle my bra and stand bare, nipples hard and pink in the chilly air.
OMG, am I really going to do this? I stare at my huge Double D’s in the mirror, ivory and succulent, and decide yes.
I am. I’m that girl now. I take a photo, then another, holding my arm across my chest in one, hands on my hips in the next.
I twist around and snap a shot of my butt in the mirror.
I flex, I pout, I bare my teeth in a predatory grin.
Each photo is a little bolder, a little more explicit.
My body flushes hot, a surge of something like pride warring with the fear that someone, somewhere, might be watching.
I set the phone down and stare at myself in the mirror, pulse racing as I take in my heaving tits and slightly damp panties. Am I going to go there?
Because there’s something else I want to try. I’ve seen it online—girls spreading their legs for the camera, spreading themselves open like it’s nothing. I wonder what it would feel like to make a photo like that, to own it the way Cassie or any of those girls would.
I grab the edge of the vanity and sink down onto the little stool, my thighs sticking to the vinyl.
I arrange myself so that my knees are wide apart, and then gently hook a finger into the gusset of my panties and pull it away so that the dark pink wetness between my legs catches the light.
My fingers hesitate, then slide along my slit, just enough to make myself glisten.
I take a deep breath, grab the phone, and take a picture: no face, just pussy and hand and nothing else.
It’s fine, right?
No one’s going to see.
Plus, when I look at the photo, I don’t feel sick or gross. I feel—”empowered” isn’t quite the word. It’s more like, for the first time, I have something that someone else might want. Not just want. Obsess over. Feel envy about. And I like it.
I get up and rummage through the junk drawer in my nightstand, where all my failed experiments in self-pleasure live.
There’s a vibrator, still in its box, a gift from Mary Kate that I’ve never dared to use.
There’s also a massive, translucent dildo that I bought on a dare in college and stashed away out of sight.
I take both out, cradling them in my lap, and start to giggle—because honestly, who am I right now?
What happened to the real Kayleigh because I don’t recognize this woman at all.
The giggle dies quick. My pussy throbs, and the idea of taking a picture with the dildo, of becoming the slutty girl who could steal Trevor’s attention, makes my mouth go dry.
I set up my phone on a pile of textbooks, angling the camera so it can see the whole bed, then kneel on the mattress, hair wild, face flushed.
I lick the tip of the dildo, exaggerating the movement, eyes rolling up just enough to look wanton.
I press the toy between my tits, then against my cheek, then down between my legs.
I pose, I preen, I act like I’m on camera for Trevor, like he’s watching me from the other side of the lens.
The camera flashes every ten seconds, capturing my dirty acts.
“Oooh Trevor,” I moan theatrically. “Mmm, touch me there. Yesss.”