Turning the Tables
By Itinerant
Edited by Amelia R.

Author's Note: Written for Erin's Strangefellow's Day Kontest^WContest. Pulled from an idea that arose during a brief, demented series of messages with John in Wauwatosa.

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Monday, October 1, 2001

"Well? Have you found a candidate? All Hallows Eve is less than four weeks away, and I want to have the ritual on the full moon."

Thirteen men, dressed casually, but neatly, sat around a massive table that appeared to be made from a single, huge slab of wood. Intricately inlaid with vaguely Celtic-looking designs, it left a sense of unease with even those in the room despite its beauty. Carstairs looked around the table, smiling to himself at the nervous looks exchanged between the other men after his question. His ability to discipline those who came short of his expectations, viciously at times, ensured each man's undivided attention.

Samuel Carstairs -- a short, thin man with thick, brown, slightly wavy hair and bearing a vague resemblance to James Cagney -- looked down each side at his fellow coven members, arrayed six to a side, as they returned a nervous gaze. A youthful, big-breasted blonde entered from a side door carrying a tray laden with brandy snifters and a large, dusty bottle. She walked first to her master, placed a a snifter before him, and filled it with some of the brandy. Her only sound was a quiet gasp as her owner slid a hand up between her legs. Silence reigned as she placed and filled a glass at each man's seat, then departed. Samuel took an appreciative sniff before sipping the slightly cool contents.

"Each of you over this last year have selected and ... prepared your own servants. I have provided security, method, and place with an understanding that you would, in turn, do your part for me. I have given you the tools you require, but it will take preparation to ensure we cannot be traced. I expect you to have the location of a prospect within the next two weeks. You will assist in capturing him, and you will then you will aid me as I require in creating my own bonded slave."

William Wallace, Carstairs' first recruit, flushed at the implied rebuke. "We used your ritual and found a prospect. Our results were unusual though."

Samuel's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? Are you certain you followed each step precisely?"

"We did it this time exactly as we had each time before. The response almost blinded us. Our target is where we expected, but ...."

Samuel's dark blue eyes were hard. "I don't care what your supposed problems are. Locate my servant, or I shall use one of you as a substitute."

*****
Sunday, October 28, 2001

"I really appreciate your holding this costume for me, Caitlin. I wanted something special this year, and I couldn't fit into the others." Tim Henley was of average height, slightly over-weight, and had thick, black hair. Tim tended to be reclusive, though he invariably stepped up for his limited circle of friends. Despite Caitlin's persistence in extending invitations for her friend to join on small group outings, he invariably smiled and declined.

He swiped his card while Caitlin bagged his prize. She grinned at her memories of his imaginative choices. ~He puts a lot of himself into this.~

She handed him his bag and admonished: "You remember to get a picture to add to our collection here, got it!?" The store had a bulletin board where photos of outstanding costumes hung; Tim held the current record for most pictures posted, and this year promised to add to his lead.

"Have I ever let you down?" he asked, taking the bag and heading out of her shop. The street was lit by wide-spaced lights, but Tim lived near enough that he would need perhaps fifteen minutes to reach his own efficiency apartment -- even less tonight. With a cold autumn wind whistling down the sidewalk, he'd keep a quicker pace.

Crossing a shadowed building entry, Tim felt every muscle in his body freeze. He lost consciousness without seeing his assailant.

*****

~That fool's walking right into it,~ Samuel Carstairs thought to himself while he waited in a doorway. ~The others were right, though. This one has some potential as a rival. At least, he would have if he hadn't been born as a man.~ He recalled, briefly, as he waited, all that had happened to bring him to this place.

Twenty years ago, Samuel had ... procured an ancient scroll, rumored to have been rescued from the Library of Alexandria. He'd struggled for years to translate and then understand his prize.

At first, he was disappointed with his discovery. It seemed his acquisition contained only works of fiction that described a man's effort to learn and control magic; strange phrasings formed the miraculous "spells" to unlock "the secrets of the universe." He reached the first of these, and he'd laughed quietly to himself thinking, ~Yeah, right!~

Despite his frustration, he decided to have a little fun with the story and read his first spell theatrically. When his hands began to glow, and sparks flew from his fingertips, it dawned upon him that his scroll's value was vastly higher than he'd ever imagined.

Magic, impossible as it had been to believe, was real, and Samuel delved into an arcane reality that surely few men living had encountered.

~Now,~ he thought to himself, ~I have wealth and power.~ The young man rapidly approached Samuel's preferred point of ambush.

Samuel had used his abilities and knowledge to gather a small group of twelve other men who shared a portion of his knowledge and had benefited from it. Three nights from now, on Halloween, they would hold a thirteenth gathering to provide their group leader, Samuel himself, with a personal slave. Only men could be affected by spells from Carstairs' scroll, and his victim had to be of approximately their intended size and weight, but given how the spell reformed both body and mind into a perfect representation of the spell-caster's desire, none of his companions cared.

He gestured with his hand when his victim passed, rendering his target both immobile and unconscious. Samuel's vehicle, a large, sand colored SUV, pulled up; moments later, all was again silent.

*****
Wednesday, October 31, 2001

Tim first noticed the cold.

He must have kicked off his blankets last night, and now, before the automatic thermostat brought his apartment up to temperature, he'd become chilled. His effort to reach down and pull up his blanket was futile, however. Something gripped his wrists, and his ankles as well. His mouth and throat were dry, as if he'd not had a drink for days. His stomach, too, felt as if it had been empty for an unreasonably long time.

A rasping whisper was all he could manage for a protest, but it was sufficient to draw someone's attention. His eyelids seemed to be glued together with crusted remnants of tears, and Tim struggled to even blink.

"I see you've finally wakened, and nicely in time, too."

Tim turned his head and tried to focus on the voice's source. "Wh-who are you? Where am I?" he rasped.

As before, a light tenor voice spoke. "You don't really need to know who I am. In a short time, you will know. Where are you? You are on my estate."

Tim coughed. "Why?"

His captive's eyes struggled to focus as Samuel gazed down on a bewildered face.

~Why not? It it's not like he'll remember it.~

Carstairs leaned against the table where the naked man lay bound by immaterial shackles.

"I won't give you the long story, since you won't remember it anyway. Years ago I found a scroll that proved to me that magic is real and that contained several spells. One of those spells allows the caster to create a perfect servant; someone whose body and mind would represent his -- or her, I suppose -- desires for the servant's whole life. Perpetually young, but with their will harnessed for all time. I found that casting that spell was terribly draining, even with the aid of my companions."

Samuel gently stroked the tabletop, and a faint vibration rippled through the wood.

"Our first two slaves left us all in a near stupor for hours. One of my hobbies, though, is collecting antiques. A trip to the British Isles led me to an auction where I found this lovely piece of furniture. The auctioneer had laughed as he related a family story about this table having been made from a single oak tree from an ancient Druid grove.

"He had no idea that his tale was true. Somehow, whoever made it managed to create a magical focus, or amplifier. Now my spell can be cast without appreciable fatigue. You, though, will be our final conversion." He chuckled. "My 'conversion table' will make you into *my* perfect servant -- my slave for the rest of my life -- and yours.

"First, I will reshape your body to match my desires, then I will mold your soul and bind it to *my* will."

Tim struggled desperately as the madman turned away to call his companions and complete their final preparations.

Thirteen cloaked figures arrayed themselves around the table; Carstairs raised his hands, and the group began a quiet, unison chant. A chorus of male voices recited each phrase with a precision born of long practice.

"No! For God's sake stop this!" Tim's desperate attempt at yelling failed as his dry throat turned shouts into whispers. Even his whispering faded as something -- a strange feeling as if he were wound in swaths of gauze -- gathered around his body and slowly choked off his ability to speak.

Samuel frowned. His victim had quieted, though later than normal, but he had had to pour more mental effort into this first stage. It wasn't nearly so hard as it had been without his table, but none of his previous transformations had been quite so challenging.

~They said this one reacted differently to the detection spell. No doubt this is a result of whatever caused that reaction.~

Tim's struggles faded as the soft restraint turned to an irresistible confinement. He could just move his eyes and thus was able to catch a glimpse of his own skin glowing softly. A strange, surreal pattern of pressure points covered every inch of his form for a time, then his body went numb from head to toe. He closed his eyes,and pictured himself, while he could, as he'd dreamed he'd be.

Carstairs found he was breathing more heavily, and the chanting of his fellows was becoming more labored as well. A brightening glow filled the room from his slave-to-be's body, which was normal. He could see flesh reforming under the eldritch energies, yet not as he'd willed it to be. He couldn't wait, though. It was time to begin remolding the psyche of his victim; the scroll had warned of dire consequences if any deviation from the pattern was allowed.

The strain on the magicians, as they voiced the phrases that should have begun the shaping of the man's soul to fit his newly female body, soared. Each man in the circle held fast, but as they chanted, it seemed each phrase built a pressure they desperately strove to hold back.

~This is wrong! The glow should be changing color, and it's not!~

Samuel fought to control the building energies long enough to reach the end of the ritual.

Tim no longer felt anything on his skin. Now, though, he sensed a pulsing in his mind that seemed to leave something behind. It was as if he was being charged like a battery, but not at all uncomfortable.

*****

A physicist, had he been able to view the arcane energies being wielded, would have instantly comprehended what was happening. Pulses of energy were being added to a steadily rising field and were reflecting between an encircling wall and a reclining form at the field's center that acted as a perfect mirror.

It was a magical LASER, and the magicians were adding energy to the system as they chanted. Finally, just as in a mundane LASER, the mirror restraining the energy could contain no more.

*****

Samuel Carstairs never knew which of his cohorts gave way. It didn't matter, really. The loss of one man built the strain beyond another's ability to hold, and, like unraveling fabric, the circle collapsed. Carstairs was last to fail, and he knew despair as he felt the magical energies burst from confinement. An instant before he lost consciousness, he felt his body twisting under a wave of uncontrolled energies.

Tim Henley felt the moment when the spell failed, as sensation returned rapidly to his body. He felt slightly odd in places, but better than when he'd first wakened in this madhouse.

He'd sat up and had slipped down to stand barefoot on the floor, before his eyesight cleared enough to see the carnival sideshow surrounding him. Grotesque distortions of femininity, refugees from a funhouse mirror's reflection, lay insensate on the floor where each man had been. Shredded remnants of cloak and clothing did nothing to hide their bizarre forms -- their inhumanly huge breasts were only a beginning.

~I still feel like myself, and whatever they had in mind obviously went wrong.~

Tim spotted a full-length mirror in a corner, and he gasped as he saw what changes had been wrought in his body.

He guessed that his height was about the same, but instead of a slightly overweight man, he was now a woman -- the image he'd always held in his heart of his true self. His hair was now long, and blue-black; his breasts -- joy rang in the thought -- were nicely rounded and modestly sized. He wasn't skinny, but had a soft, well-rounded form. His skin seemed pale against his hair; his lips seemed full and looked almost ruby-red.

~I'm *me*,~ he thought as a tear of relief and happiness trickled from his eye. For the first time in his ... her life, she was whole.

~I suppose 'Tim' isn't appropriate, now,~ she thought, smiling. Years before, a small child had decided that 'Rachel' was a better name for the person under a boy-child's skin. Now, smiling, Rachel could rejoice in her true birth. A shiver reminded her of her nudity.

~I probably can find *something* around here to wear that will let me get home.~

*****

It was invisible, but not imperceptible. Twelve women, each in her own master's suite, froze as eldritch energies warped reality around them.

Boopsie shuddered as something real, but invisible, hammered into her body and soul. Within her mind, she felt something stirring. Her body, too, tingled as it changed; she reeled under the impact, then her awareness swam away into blackness.

*****

Rachel explored each room of her captor's mansion, gaping at its size and gaudy trappings, until she came to what must have been the room intended for her. There, parked in a corner in its bag, was her Halloween costume. She smiled as she put aside the long, black wig and breast forms; there was no need for them -- not anymore. The young woman dressed as quickly as she could, and she thrilled at how well her costume conformed to her shape. Slipping into the outfit's shoes, she returned to a mirror to admire her new look.

~Hmmm? What's that all about?~ Rachel wondered, as she caught a glimpse of blue-white lights near her hands as she gathered her hair. She held her hands in front of her face and watched in bewilderment as tiny, bright sparks leapt from her fingertips.

~What have they done to me?~

Her fear of her change was put aside when a quiet groan echoed down the hallway outside her room.

*****

He woke in confusion. It seemed that the weird nightmare had finally released him, though his head swam from whatever that lunatic had done to him. Alex heard a woman's voice groan in unison with his own; his head pounded, as if he was getting another migraine headache.

~It must have been someone outside,~ he thought. He staggered to his feet and wobbled out the door. His legs nearly gave way, and he braced himself against the doorway. The hallway wasn't brightly lit, but ahead of him was what might have been an entrance, or stairway. He drew himself up and staggered forward, slightly off balance, just as someone -- a girl, it seemed -- poked her head out of a doorway.

*****

Rachel carefully looked around a corner to see another, reasonably normal female form braced against a doorway nearby. Groaning again, the other woman staggered toward a stairway leading down to the mansion's first floor.

"Excuse me?" Rachel's alto voice rang loud in the silence.

The other woman's shriek was even louder. "Who are you? Wh-where am I? What *happened* to me? Why am I dressed like this?" Her green dress, what there was of it, was just long enough to cover her panties, and its neckline dipped low enough to almost expose her nipples; her brown hair cascaded in waves to her shoulders. Shocked as she was, she knew that her body was almost normal in its proportions; a vague memory of vast breasts flitted through the new arrival's mind. "And why are you dressed *that* way?"

"I don't know. I'm ... Rachel, now, Rachel Henley. This was going to be my Halloween costume. Who are you?"

"I-I ... he called me Boopsie. My name is ... was Alex Arsenault." She propped herself against the wall, a perfect picture of mental anguish. "How did they do this to me? My family...."

Strands of her black hair flew as Rachel stepped quickly over to pull Alex into a hug. The brunette's shoulders shook as she vented her pain. Rachel felt something -- the charge she'd received, perhaps -- surge gently through her hands and into Alex. The former slave shuddered and felt a sense of peace filling her heart.

Other women, varying in size and build, slowly gathered around.

Gradually they shared their stories, consoling one another as each struggled to accept the change forced upon them.

Alex looked at Rachel in confusion. "How is it you aren't one of their slaves? Didn't they put you on that damned table? And what's with the electric fingers?"

Rachel shrugged. "I don't know, really. I was stuck to the table-top, and they were chanting. I went numb for a while; I guess when they were trying to make me look like they wanted, then everything went boom!"

"Carstairs wanted you to look like that? He seemed more partial to big boobs, if my memories are right."

"I can't say what his tastes were," Rachel said, hesitantly. "I ... always wanted to look like this. All my life I knew I was in the wrong body, and this was how I should look."

"Boopsie? Who's the new girl in the witch dress?"

A tiny Asian woman came up to the pair, looking for answers.

"Hi, Yanyan. It's Alex -- Alexandra, now, I guess. This is Rachel, who was going to be Samuel's slave. Their spell backfired, and now we're trying to figure out why."

Yanyan listened to the newcomer's story,and frowned. "I wonder. Were any of us, other than Rachel, transgendered?" Heads shook, and Alex gazed thoughtfully at their rescuer.

"I remember that bastard Carstairs saying his magic would change my body, then my soul. Maybe that's what happened: He tried to change something his magic couldn't touch. What happened to him, anyway?"

Rachel led her companions downstairs to where the human wreckage lay strewn on the floor. All thirteen bodies were still senseless; Charmaine, a slender black-skinned woman who'd been a Norwegian doctor, checked each one quickly.

"They're all alive, but looking at them, I wouldn't bet on their mental state when they wake."

A bedroom was selected to hold their former masters, and after securing the door, all the former slaves gathered near the table.

"We don't have any ID, but Katrina remembers a contact her former master used. Most of us can recall where money was stashed, so we're not badly off since they were all wealthy. Rachel, we owe you. Even if it was accidental, we'd still be slaves without you. You'll get your new identification and an equal share of the money."

"What will you do with ... them?"

Faint noises, a sound of crazy laughter, penetrated to their meeting room, interrupting any reply.

"What's that?" asked Katrina, the blonde who'd served at the meeting earlier in the month.

The group tracked the sound to the room holding their former captors and cautiously peered inside.

Hysterical laughter filled the room, as the transformed men writhed on the floor in a grotesque display of sexual self-gratification. Their hilarity seemed to be triggered as each woman twisted into another bizarre position, pawing themselves and each other.

Rachel gaped at the display. "Dear Goddess," she whispered, "that's what they wanted me to be."

"You lucked out," Alex responded. "The rest of us remember being a lot like that. We ... remember. We're not as strangely formed anymore, but they put groups of us together and we ... oh God, it was just like this!"

"What are you going to do with them? They can't take care of themselves."

"We'll try to keep them safe from themselves until we can arrange for long-term care. No matter how cruel they were, no matter how much they abused us, we can't let them be abused." Several faces showed their unhappiness with the course of action but appeared resigned to the group's decision.

As the door was pulled shut, one of the writhing women looked toward her former captives. An instant of awareness and understanding flickered through her face before she returned to her self-gratification. Rachel knew, without knowing how, that it had been Samuel Carstairs looking out through those eyes. He was locked in a prison of his own making, condemned to act out his warped fantasies by his own evil.

The costumed woman shuddered. ~He'd have had *me* in that same place, and all the rest of them helped, but still it's a horrible fate.~ She joined her subdued companions as they returned to the room where the table stood.

Hours later, everyone jumped when a grandfather clock started chiming. Rachel noticed that it was just midnight. A new day, and her new life, had just begun.

"I'm going to head home for now, but I'll come back tomorrow. Alex." Rachel scribbled down her phone number, .here's my cell phone number if you need me to pick up something on my way back."

"Rachel, we found these," Yanyan said. She handed the black-haired woman a scroll. "It's the scroll with the spells Carstairs used on us and a couple of notebooks he had with it. You seem to have some power now, so you might be able to do some good with it."

"I'll try; I promise. I'm not much of a language person, but maybe I can find a way to fix what he did to you." The black-haired woman hugged each of the twelve women -- her sisters in adversity -- before slipping out the door. A brilliant full moon hung overhead as she walked along the winding drive. She was pleasantly surprised to realize how close she was to her home, and she stepped out briskly with her bag, filled with what had been in Tim's pockets, swinging freely with her stride.

Sounds of an old Eagles tune floated from an open window in a bungalow as she passed. A bubble of laughter escaped as the lyrics became clear:

"Raven hair, and ruby lips.
Sparks fly from her fingertips.
Echoed voices in the night,
she's a restless spirit on an endless flight.
Woo-hoo, witchy woman, see how high she flies
Woo-hoo, witchy woman, she got the moon in her eye..."