Lifeswap - part 1 of 12

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Lifeswap (part 1 of 12)

by Maeryn Lamonte

Copyright © 2014 Maeryn Lamonte - All Rights Reserved.

So I prefer not to start publishing serials unless I'm pretty sure I can get them finished in a reasonable time, and life's been getting in the way of my writing quite a bit lately so I've waited till now to put this out there. Since I'm on the tenth and final part, I think it's a fairly safe bet that I'll finish this one before I'm ready to post the last chapter. Oh yeah, on that subject. I live for your comments, especially the thoughtful ones. The more comments I get, the quicker I'll post the next chapter (mwa ha ha ha ha ha - or something).

Additional information - I've put together a website for my stories at metamorph.org.uk. Lifeswap's not up there yet as BCTS is still the first home to my TG writing. It's still a work in progress, so please don't be too harsh with your comments. Also I'm thinking of self-publishing a few of my past stories, maybe on Lulu, unless someone can suggest somewhere better. I want the option for paper copies, not just ebooks. In that regard, I was wondering if anyone would care to proof some of my old stories, plus I wouldn't mind picking the brains of someone who's had some experience with self-publishing. PM me if you'd like to help.

Anyway - Jerry Goodman is a banker, but more of a George Bailey than some of the selfish shits in the world today. An acquaintance of his persuades him to play the sort of party game you only think is fun after you've had a few, and a little magic later, things get rather complicated. A word of caution, I've been a little uncontrolled in my use of language in this, and there is some violence and sexual abuse later in the story, in case that might put you off starting.

-oOo-

"So how does this work again?" I asked, eyeing the bowl with more than a little suspicion.

"It's simple Jerry," Tony put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "We all put our keys in the bowl, stir them around a bit, then we each close our eyes and grab a set at random. Whoever's keys you pick, you get to be them for a while."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make sense. I mean I don't know the first thing about what you do, and you have no idea what my job entails, so how do we get to be each other?"

"By magic." Tony's eyes widened and he waved his hands in a mysterious way. The others laughed and I joined in, smiling nervously.

"So you mean this is just a game? We pretend to be each other for the evening. There's nothing real about this?"

"It's as real as magic can make it," Tony said cryptically, the others laughing along with him yet again.

In truth I'd had a few too many that evening, otherwise I might have picked up on the edge of nervousness in their manner. As it was though, the thing sounded quite fun. I mean Mike was an airline pilot, Randall was a surgeon, Peter was a lawyer, Tony was an antiques dealer. It might be amusing to pretend to be one of them for the evening.

Something still niggled at the back of my mind though. If I'd been sober, it would have been obvious these guys were hiding something, but my brain was foggy and all I had was a vague sense of unease.

"So what happens on Monday morning?" I persisted, trying to find something real to hang my concerns on. "I mean I have responsibilities. I wouldn’t want to wake up and find Peter here opening up the bank in my name."

Nervous laughter. I’m not sure why I picked the lawyer. Innate distrust I guessed.

"That would hardly be as bad as you finding yourself in the cockpit of a 747 with three hundred passengers to fly to the other side of the world would it?"

Laughter again, but less nervous this time. I joined in, relaxing a little.

"Look Jerry, what if I said you could have your keys back at any time? Go on, chuck them in the bowl. You’ll get to enjoy being a surgeon or a lawyer or whatever the person does whose keys you take for as long as you like. Meanwhile one of us gets the thrill of being the hotshot banker with the big house, the fast car and the trophy wife. If at any time you don't like how things are going, just say the word and whoever has your keys swaps back with you."

If truth be told, the big house and the fast car weren't all they were cracked up to be. I'd inherited my wealth as well as my position at the bank, and none of it had given me any amount of happiness. As for the trophy wife, Portia was typical of the breed. Ambitious, self-centred, borderline sociopathic, but gorgeous. She swept me off my feet when I was young, naive and full of hormones, and now I was tied into a marriage that had always been loveless, only I had been too stupid to see it at the outset. She puts on a good show at events like this, we both do, but for the most part our happiest days are the ones we spend apart.

I did ask her once if she wanted a divorce – an honest enough question since I could see she was as unhappy as I was, but it turned out to be an idiotic thing to do all the same. She rounded on me like the shrew she was and told me in no uncertain terms that if I tried to divorce her she'd take me to court. She said she'd either walk away with enough of my fortune to bankrupt the bank, or she'd drag things out so long that what didn't get frittered away in legal fees wouldn't buy a coffee at Starbucks. Either way I’d be left considerably poorer, and the bank – my dad’s legacy – would founder, wiping out the life savings of people who trusted us to look after their investments, and leaving over a hundred loyal staff out on the street without a job. Suffice to say I didn’t bring the matter up again.

It was thoughts of Portia more than anything that made this whole nonsense seem so appealing in the first place. I'd have gladly traded places with a sewage worker for the chance to spend an evening away from her. Not that I was being asked to sacrifice so much; everyone in the room was a professional of some sort, and with the kind of jobs that brought with them some degree of prestige. But then that was at least part of the problem. With the possible exception of Tony, I knew no more about their professions than they did about mine. With lives and livelihoods depending on our skills on a daily basis, I didn't want there to be any risk of this continuing beyond the weekend.

The others were looking at me expectantly, as though my decision was that crucial. I mean was it really such a big deal for one of them to get to pretend to be a banker for an evening?

I looked at the bowl on the coffee table. Tony dealt in all sorts of antiques and he had some pretty nice pieces. I earned considerably more than him, and over the years a significant portion of my somewhat obscene salary had found its way into his hands in exchange for the enviable collection of immaculately restored antiques that adorned my home. He had no hope of ever owning a collection like mine, yet he always managed to rouse the little green eyed monster inside me with the two or three items that he did hold onto.

The bowl was one such, and I had been eyeing it since he'd invited me in here for this evening’s party and introduced me to his friends. It was unusual in almost every way. Obviously ancient, but not recognisably from any era or culture I knew of. I'm not the expert that Tony is, but I pride myself on being a reasonably well informed amateur, so the obscurity of the piece annoyed me just as its simple elegance drew me.

"Lovely isn't it?"

His hand still rested on my shoulder. I disliked the familiarity, but suffered it in Tony's case for the sake of his unfailing capacity to surprise and delight me with something new.

I picked the bowl up and turned it slowly in my hands. It was smooth to the touch and deceptively heavy. To the eye, it seemed to have been carved from a single piece of tightly grained wood, perhaps twelve inches across and four deep. Its texture was more that of stone though; cold and unyielding, despite its thinness. As far as I could tell it was perfectly round and entirely unadorned by any pattern other than that held in its natural grain.

"I don't suppose you'd consider selling it?" I asked.

He smiled a crocodile smile; all teeth and no warmth.

"I might be persuaded," he said cautiously, "if you'll agree to join in with our little game."

And that was enough to hook me. As enticing as the fantasy of escaping my life might have been, even for a short time, something about their little game left me feeling uneasy and reluctant to join in. The thought of owning this exquisite piece, though, was all the incentive I needed.

I placed the bowl back on the table, retrieved my keys from my pocket and threw them in. The others followed suit, Tony included.

"Is this a private game, or can anyone join in?"

The voice held a musical lilt to melt even the stoniest heart. We all turned to greet the newcomer, naturally stepping away from the table and the bowl full of keys.

She was as beautiful as her voice promised. Long blond hair swept up off a slender neck and bare shoulders. Porcelain fine skin offset against an exquisite red, silk ball gown. She was fishing in her clutch bag, just a shade darker than her dress, and before anyone could react, she pulled out a set of keys with a lilac VW fob and tossed them into the bowl.

"No!"

"Hey, you can't do that!"

“What do you think you’re doing?”

"Take them out!"

The response from the other four was unanimous, and totally out of proportion to her actions. Everyone seemed appalled by what she had done, but what could be so wrong about chucking a set of keys into a bowl? Deep inside my booze addle brain, warning bells kicked off, injecting me with a much needed and long overdue jolt of adrenalin.

"It's too late," Tony said above the others' objections. "We have to play it out the way it is now."

There was something vaguely sinister in the way he spoke. My rapidly clearing head told me I wanted nothing more to do with this and I reached into the bowl.

My fingers closed on my keys, and all the strength and feeling went from them. When I pulled my hand out, it held nothing; the keys stayed where they were in the bowl.

"What is this?"

"It's how this works Jerry," Tony's voice retained that dangerous edge. "Once you've put something in, you can't take it out. You have to pick someone else's item."

"What the hell are you going on about?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I tried to explain. I didn't believe it when I discovered what this thing does, even with the evidence staring me in the face. You're committed now. You have to take someone else's keys, not your own."

"This is nuts."

"Isn't it though?" the woman in the red dress said. "But nuts or otherwise, it actually works. And it follows strict rules which have to be obeyed. The first you've already discovered. You can't take your own item. The second explains why everyone else is standing around doing nothing. Since this is your first time, you get to choose first. May I suggest the lilac fob?"

"What? What the hell is going on here?"

"It's like your not-so-good-as-you-might-think friend Tony here says, you wouldn't believe it if anyone tried to explain it. Whatever you believe, you do need to act though, and preferably now. One question to ask yourself: Do you trust any of these guys?"

Tony's brow was creased in thought. He gave her a quizzical look, then suddenly his eyebrows shot up with sudden realisation.

"Mary!" he shouted. "Mary, come here."

"You have to act now," the girl hissed. "Before she gets here."

Tony's wife appeared in the doorway.

"Mary. Put something in the bowl. Don't ask, just do it. An earring or something."

Mary looked as confused as I was, but she knew better than to question her husband. She stepped into the room, unfastening one of her earrings.

"You have to do it now, or we're both screwed."

I didn't know what to think. It was obvious Tony had some ulterior motive to this little game, and his friends, all of whom I'd met for the first time tonight, were in on it. The woman in red was a complete stranger to me, but she seemed a better bet than the others. I didn’t particularly want to pretend to be a woman, but something more was going on here, and Tony already promised I could back out if I wanted to. I reached for the bowl a second time.

"No!" Tony tried to grab my wrist, but something seemed to stop him. My hand closed on the lilac key fob just before Mary let go of her jewellery.

The earring bounced off empty air above the bowl and landed on the table beside the bowl.

"Another rule," the woman said beside me. "Once the first item has been removed, no more can be added.

"And Tony, you should know better than that."

Tony was fumbling with numb fingers for my keys. He gave up after a few moments' struggle.

"What should he have known better than?" The booze and the confusion were evidently affecting my capacity to construct a decent sentence.

"Order of precedence," she replied briefly. "First the newcomer chooses, then the weakest. I think they're safeguards of some sort, but I was never able to work out the reasons, only the order."

She reached into the bowl, everyone else watching with impotent rage. Unsurprisingly she selected my keys.

"How do you know so much about this thing?"

"Because it used to belong to me. Tony here stole it from me, isn't that right Tony?"

“I’ll get you for this Laura.” Tony's expression was homicidal, and those of his friends weren't much better.

"I get the feeling we've overstayed our welcome," I said to my new ally. "Don't you think we should leave before things get unpleasant?"

She gave me a pitying look. "Things are going to get unpleasant Jerry – it was Jerry wasn't it?" I nodded and she continued. "The ritual has to be completed, and the next bit's probably going to freak you out. Best we stay here till it's over."

She gave Tony a you-know-what-you-have-to-do look before perching on a nearby chair.

Tony picked up his wife's earring and handed it to her. "It's alright Mary," he told her. "I'll come and find you in a while."

"I don't understand..." she began.

"I'll explain it all later," he said. "Leave us be for now. I'll find you in a few minutes."

Mary left, hesitant and confused. Tony looked around at his friends and gave them a nod. "Nobody take mine," he said.

"Why do we have to..?"

"Because it's what I pay you for."

I gave my new best friend a questioning look.

"One of the rules,” she said. “The only way you get to take your item from the bowl is if it's the last one in there and you're the last one to pick. Can you move over this way a bit, and turn that way? That's great."

Under her direction I moved away from Tony, and was now facing him.

The three stooges reached into the bowl and each retrieved a key fob. Tony was the last to pick; his keys the last ones remaining. He reached in and grabbed them.

"Hold tight," said the lady in red. "Here comes the shit-storm."

I might have been shocked at her language had the shit-storm not already started, bringing with it a whole new level of shock. The whole world began to spin out of control, my vision blurred then began to pulsate before finally fading to grey. Blood roared in my ears, throbbing along with my blurred vision. My skin began to itch, then to burn, then as I was about to scream, everything went numb. I smelt burning metal, tasted strawberries and cheese. Everything became confused. Sights became sounds, smells became colours, tastes became textures. I screamed a nerve jangling, electric blue sound that tasted of Mozart and sandpaper. Confronted with the choice between madness and oblivion, I reached for the dark abyss, hoping for some respite from the insanity that assaulted my senses. Everything went black.

I don't know how long I was unconscious, but it couldn't have been long. I opened my eyes to see myself wrestling with Tony. The three others lay unconscious on the floor.

Tony was a big man and definitely had the weight advantage, but I was fitter, more supple. I twisted and swept my leg out hoping to trip him, but my body didn't respond. Instead I felt a strangely sensuous feeling as delicate fabric brushed against my smooth leg. There was a tightness about my chest, and an unnatural weight. I looked down at a swath of red and a cleavage of delicate pale skin. I was sitting somehow. I leapt to my feet, almost falling as my heels refused to go all the way to the ground.

"Shit," I shouted, with a shrillness I had never heard in my voice. My head felt heavy and clumsy. Everything was wrong.

A crash brought me spinning round. Tony had my body pinned against the wall, his forearm jammed across my throat. How come I could breathe with him doing that? My own eyes stared at me over his shoulder, pleading.

I grabbed the nearest thing to hand – the bowl – and brought it crashing down on Tony's head. It was heavier than I remembered from earlier, and it slipped out of my grasp at the last moment, falling to the ground even as Tony wilted.

We watched the bowl fall as if in slow motion. The floor was polished hardwood. Rugs here and there but nothing where it fell. It may have already been weakened by the recent mistreatment I’d given it, but either way, contact with the floor was more than it could take. It cracked and fell into two pieces.

"Oh shit."

It was strange hearing my voice from the outside. All the more so since the words were out of sync with my thoughts.

I watched as my body crouched to retrieve the broken pieces of the bowl. It stood and smiled at me a little ruefully.

"Thanks for the assist, but I wish you'd used something a little less valuable."

Tony groaned and rolled onto his back.

"Come on, we should get out of here while we can."

My body reached out to grab my hand and I felt my mind slipping over the edge. I giggled, then giggled again at the bizarreness of the sound.

"Oh no! Don't do this to me, please."

I was talking to me again. Everything became disjointed. The room receded, started to spin. Strong arms caught me as I fell. Funny, I never thought of myself as particularly strong before, but here I was carrying myself with apparent ease.

The room spun, but it was different this time. The walls swung back and forth as I was carried out of the room and down the corridor. Memories of my father carrying me to bed swam to the surface. I tried to raise my head, but nothing seemed to work right.

"Could you fetch my car please? She's had a little too much to drink and I really ought to get her home."

My voice again, but not me speaking. Who had stolen my voice?

The Mercedes pulled up beside us and the valet climbed out, opened the passenger door. I was gently eased into the seat and the safety belt pulled across. It felt rough against my bare shoulder, and it didn't sit right across my chest. Once more I stared down at a milky white cleavage and wondered where it had come from.

Doors closed, opened, closed again. I looked across at me securing myself in the driver's seat. What was I doing over there when I was over here?

"Do you have my handbag?" my voice asked.

I had vague memories of a dark red clutch bag falling to the floor when I had stood up out of the chair I shook my head.

"Bollocks!" Usually my language wasn't this course. "We'll have to go to your place then. Are you up to giving directions?"

I reached out a long, slender finger and turned the satnav on. It was more than a little freaky having such delicate hands and arms, though I found I kind of liked it. The screen blinked to life. I touched it a few times in different places, setting home as the destination.

"What about Portia?" I managed to say, the words sounding distant in my ears. Not surprising since it wasn't my voice.

"She'll have to make her own way," I heard myself say.

"She's not going to be happy with us." There was a familiar music to my voice. Not my voice. Her voice. Why was I speaking with her voice?

"Portia is the least of our problems at the moment."

The car pulled away, out into the early evening traffic. I could feel myself fading.

"You won't say that tomorrow."

I could hear my words slurring. My words, but not my voice. Not my body either. I couldn't face the impossibility of what had happened, and surrendered to blissful unconsciousness as it washed over me at last.

-oOo-

I woke to the sound of raised voices; Portia's familiar, shrill ranting and my own muffled response. I was tucked up in the guest bedroom, upstairs and on the other side of the house from the main living area. It was no surprise that I could hear my wife; she could out- scream the lady in Psycho when she put her mind to it, and she was putting her mind to it right now. What impressed me was how well I was holding my own in the argument.

I sat up and almost fainted all over again as the unfamiliarity of my situation overwhelmed me. I was wearing one of Portia's white, cotton nightdresses, which begged the question who had dressed me.

An uncomfortable and oddly urgent need overtook me and I swung my legs out of bed.

The argument became louder and more intelligible when I opened the bedroom door, but my body's need overrode any desire to eavesdrop. I padded softly down the corridor to the nearest bathroom and shut myself in. A few moments' frantic scrabbling, lifting this and pulling down that, and I was seated and letting out an oddly uncontrolled stream into the toilet.

I stared down at my smooth, pale, hairless legs, a curtain of tangled blond hair channelling my vision. This was actually happening. I wasn't me anymore. Somehow I was someone else. Someone whose name I didn't even know. Someone who wasn’t even male.

The garden sprinkler seemed to have exhausted its reservoir. I folded a couple of sheets of loo paper and used them to wipe my bits dry. I probably should have been freaked out by what was missing between my legs, but for some reason it didn't bother me that much. Maybe I was in denial. Maybe after so many years married to Portia I’d come to look on it as being superfluous – a sort of external appendix. Certainly I hadn't had much use for the thing since she’d insisted on separate beds, then separate rooms just months after we were married. Somehow it felt neater down there not having anything dangling between my legs. I pulled up my knickers, enjoying the simplicity of it all. Nothing to arrange into a comfortable position.

Toilet flushed, hands washed and back out into the corridor. The row had subsided and an uneasy truce existed downstairs. I say uneasy; it was only an assumption based on my own previous domestics with my dear wife. I thought about going downstairs, but here I was an intruder in my own home. I had no idea what my counterpart had told Portia. As far as I was aware, he might not even have mentioned my presence, and just what sort of fresh scene would that generate if I suddenly appeared wearing her nightclothes? She might even consider changing her mind about the divorce if we gave her reason to believe I had been unfaithful, if she thought she could get away with it. In matters like this the truth didn't come into it. Circumstantial evidence and someone as loud and obnoxious as Portia would most likely end up with a ruling in her favour so quickly I wouldn't have time to sit down.

I made my way quietly back to the guest room and climbed into bed.

I had flushed the toilet.

Usually there wasn't anyone in the house other than Portia and myself.

She wasn't stupid. She'd realise someone else was here.

Best not to hide then. I climbed back out of bed and looked around for a robe or dressing gown. It was warm enough that I didn't really need one, but I'd look a bit more decent if I was properly wrapped up. A cursory search turned up nothing, so I did what I could to make myself a bit presentable, then I headed downstairs.

"She's a bit of a cow, your wife."

I spun around and there I was, or at least she was. He was? My body was in any case. I felt light headed again and made my unsteady way over to the couch opposite him. Her. Whatever.

"She has her moments," I agreed. "The most recent one's lasted about eight years so far."

He laughed. I decided I was going to have to think of him as male, just as I would have to think of me as female now.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Said she was going to her mother's; too angry to stay. Just came to grab a few things and have a good yell at me. Wanted to know who was the floozy I brought home with me, then told me to expect to hear from her solicitor."

"Who is the floozy you brought home with you?"

There were a lot of other more pertinent questions I could have asked. How did she know about me? Not so hard that one. The valets had seen us drive off together. What did she plan on doing? Also not such a mystery. Given the volume of her harpy screech and her comment about her solicitor, the divorce suit was all but inevitable, and there would go the bank.

"I never did introduce myself, did I? I'm Laura Townsend. Or rather I suppose you are now."

"Nice to make my acquaintance, I'm sure."

"You're taking this very well. It can't be easy for you."

"No different for you, I expect."

"You forget I owned the bowl before Tony. I've used it quite a few times; been a man more than once too. Makes a pleasant change to be in a body that's been well looked after."

"Thank you, I suppose."

Silence drifted in like a sea mist.

"So what happens now?" I found the courage to ask from somewhere. I'm not sure what terrified me more, the expectation that he'd have no idea, or the possibility that he might.

"Well right now I'm going to enjoy another glass of this excellent malt whiskey. I'd offer you one, but knowing that body, you'd pass out after the second sip."

"It's okay, I never cared much for the stuff anyway. How many have you had?" I couldn't keep the hint of disapproval from my voice.

"This," he waved the bottle expansively before pouring a generous triple, "will be my third. And that," he pointed at me with his newly filled glass, "is a very woman-like thing to do. You should do well in your new life, which is probably just as well, 'cos I don't see anything changing for a while."

"Since we’re swapping clichés, your looking for a solution in the bottom of a bottle is about as typically male." There were real barbs in the words now; I couldn't hide my disappointment in him, especially after the resourcefulness he'd shown at the party.

"Creative solutions tend to come to me better when I'm a little tipsy. Unfortunately it's taking a bit more than usual to reach the level of pissed-ness when they usually start coming. How come you have so many bottles of this stuff if you don't like it?" He took an appreciative mouthful of whiskey and collapsed back onto the sofa.

"They were birthday gifts from Portia. I'm not sure if it's a deliberate slight, or if she just couldn't be bothered to try and think of something I’d actually want.

"Maybe I should have a drink. Given that I now have the brain you used to be creative in the past, you may no longer have the capacity."

"Your funeral, but I'd water it down a long way if you hope to stay conscious. I'm not sure how much help you can be though, without all the facts."

I eyed the malt. I really didn't care for the stuff. There was a bottle of vodka in the cabinet as well; Portia's drink of choice. Mixed with enough orange juice, nobody could tell you were drinking.

I poured out half a finger into a tall glass then carried it to the fridge, topped it up to the brim with OJ. I took a sip.

"So why don't you fill in the gaps. If nothing else, talking about it might prompt a few fresh ideas." I chose the armchair opposite him and perched on the edge. "Let's start with the bowl. What is it precisely?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?"

"It swaps consciousnesses between bodies. Everyone involved puts an item in, then whoever's you pull out, your mind goes into their body. I imagine Tony suggested keys since they're traditional for wife swap parties."

"Oh, been to many of those have you?"

"I wish. Portia would never do anything so openly scandalous."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"You think this is paradise, you have a nasty surprise waiting for you."

"No, not really. I already met her, remember?"

"Yeah, what did you tell her?"

"I said we were talking and you fainted. I was taking you to hospital when you roused enough to ask me not to, so I brought you here instead."

"Not the greatest story."

"Alright smartass, what would you have said?"

"Probably not much better to be fair, but with it being your word against hers with no witnesses we can call on, who do you think the jury's going to believe? She fakes charm pretty well does my wife."

"There's the valet. You were pretty much out of it when I picked up the car. He may have seen you rouse a little once we were in."

"I'm not convinced. I doubt that’ll be enough."

"Well sorry for breathing. Maybe I'll just tell the jury I couldn't help myself, brought you home and took you straight to bed."

"Yeah, about that. I'm guessing it was you who changed me into this nightdress."

"Yeah, what of it?"

"What do you mean what of it? It's hardly appropriate."

"You're forgetting that was my body for the last twenty-seven years. I've seen it naked before."

"Yeah but not with a penis in your pants!"

He smiled, reliving the memory and took another swig. "Yeah, I wasn't expecting that. I guess you're right. It won't happen again."

I sipped at my mainly orange juice. The taste was so much more alive in my mouth, and I could even pick out the hint of alcohol it contained. "So back to this bowl. I've figured out what it does, but not how or why. Anything you can say that might shed a bit of light?"

He stood and started pacing, ordering his thoughts before speaking. I gave him the space and before long he started.

"It's old. I mean really old; predates history by quite a way. It's made of petrified oak, which you probably sort of figured out already. But that doesn't answer the question of how it was made. Oak is hard enough to work with just stone tools, and any wood that's petrified is considerably harder. There are no signs of tool marks or anything; and the thing is perfectly round. Measured with a laser and everything. The diameter doesn't vary by so much as a tenth of a millimetre. How the hell a stone age cave man could conceive of such a thing, let alone make one, is beyond me.

"It's been in my family for quite a few generations. We don't know who came by it originally, or how, but there's a story of how my great, great grandmother unearthed it in the attic of the house she inherited from her grandfather. She stumbled on its secret when she and her husband were putting fruit in it. After the initial freaking out, they eventually got to experimenting and figured out how to reverse the change.

"She called it the witch's cauldron. I mean it's not a cauldron obviously, but what it does upset my grandmother enough to make her think of witchcraft, so the name stuck.

"My great, great grandparents decided it couldn't be trusted to just anyone, so it's been passed down to the most responsible member of the next generation since their time, along with a demonstration of what it does and a warning not to use it or to tell anyone about it."

"So how did Tony find out?"

"Well I'm a bit of an antiques collector anyway, and a few months back I was a bit strapped for cash, so I invited him round to give me a price on a few pieces. I like to keep the bowl where I can see it, so it was on display when Tony came round. He wanted to look at it and wouldn't be refused, so I let him handle it. He wasn’t too happy when I told him I had no intention of selling it, but we agreed a price on the stuff I wanted to get rid of, and he left.

“A couple of days later, someone broke into my place. The bowl was one of the things taken.”

“So you figured Tony was the thief.”

“In all the years it’s been in my possession, he’s the only person outside the family who’s shown any interest in it.”

“Do you think he knew what it was before he took it?”

“Well given what he was trying to do with it at the party, I think that’s a fairly safe bet.”

“So maybe he could tell us a thing or two about it. Give us some clues on how we could fix it or where we could find another.”

She laughed, but with little humour. “So what, we just call him up and ask him? After what we did last night, I doubt he’s going to be too pleased with us. In fact I’m kind of expecting a visit from him sometime soon.”

I set my drink down and walked out towards the front door. The alarm panel was set to standby. A few key presses had the external sensors up and running. None of the alarms went off straight away, so I figured we were safe for the time being. I returned to the living room.

“What was that about?” He was beginning to slur his words slightly.

I told him what I’d done, and that I thought he’d had enough to drink.

“What would you know about it?”

“Well, like you pointed out earlier, until recently that was my body and I know its limits.”

“So what, am I going to collapse in a heap any time soon?”

“No but you’re going to make progressively less sense from hereon in. Your brain probably already feels numb, and if you think about it, you’re not thinking as quickly or as clearly. Keep going and within the next few minutes you won’t be able to open your mouth without saying something stupid. I know, I’ve been there a few times.”

He looked at the half-filled tumbler in his hand and drained it before putting it down.

“I could make some coffee,” I suggested.

“No. We should get some sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Two, maybe three?”

“You could check your watch.”

“Oh.” He stared at his wrist with some surprise, made an effort to focus. “It’s a liddlafter three. I mean the big hand’s on the two and the liddlhand is between the three and the four.” He chortled at his joke.

I walked into the kitchen area and filled a large glass with water.

“You should drink this before you go to sleep.”

“Why? So I piss myself in bed? This isn’t the time for practical jokes you know.”

“No it’s to stop you having too much of a hangover in the morning. I’ve been there too, and I think we’d both be better off if you could think clearly when you wake up.”

He downed the water in one heroic go, spilling a fair amount down the front of his – my? – suit. It would have to do. I offered him a hand to pull him to his feet. He took hold of it and pulled me onto his lap, grinning madly into my face.

“You know I’m very pretty,” he said examining me closely. “I don’t think I ever realised it before, but I have a very pretty face.”

I felt a cold chill run through me. There was no way I’d be able to fight him off if he decided he wanted to have some fun. I knew it was only the booze talking, but I also knew how loud it spoke, and this was his first time dealing with a libido that had been frustrated for quite some years. I pushed away at his chest. There was a wiry strength in these slender arms I’d inherited, but not enough if he stopped playing.

“Whereas I,” I tried to keep my voice light and joking, “have whiskey breath and almost no charm to speak of when I’m drunk. Come on, let’s get you to bed. We’ll continue this in the morning.

He let me climb to my feet, and with far more effort than I’d normally have needed, I hauled him off the sofa as well. I let him drape his arm across my shoulders, then had to grab his hand and pull it to one side as he tried to cop a feel.

“Doesn’t it feel wrong, trying to grope your own body?”

“No, it feels soft and squishy, and I like it.”

He tried to pull his hand free to have another go and I ducked out from under him, leaving him leaning against a wall.

“If you’re going to try that, I’ll leave you to fend for yourself.”

“No ‘salright. I’ll behave.”

I shouldered my burden again and we made slow, unsteady progress up the stairs to my bedroom, where I pushed him onto the bed, slipped off his shoes and loosened his belt and tie.

“You know you could stay.” He was sleepy and drunk and not trying very hard.

“You’re wife’s about to sue you for marital infidelity. Don’t you think it might be best not to give her any ammunition?”

I was glad I’d only had a couple of sips of my drink. I mean this whole thing was weird and scary, and something in me was drawn to the idea of having strong arms around me. I’d looked after my body, and it was in pretty good shape – hansom too – so it probably wouldn’t have taken much more alcohol to persuade me to do the foolish thing.

He started to snore gently, which more or less settled the matter. I used the alarm panel in his bedroom to set the internal alarms before heading back to my bed in the guest room.

I couldn’t sleep. Everything was different. The feel of the nightdress instead of pyjamas, the smoothness of my skin, the additional weight on my chest, the gaping void between my legs. I felt lighter, weaker, and so oddly shaped. Even basic things like walking or simply lying down felt so unusual.

My mind felt different as well; filled with a constant barrage of thoughts and ideas, many of them inconsequential. I tried to grab hold of them, focus them into something that made sense, but it was like trying to persuade a room full of cats to line up on parade. As soon as I grabbed hold of one, the rest squirmed out of my control and drifted away.

That might have been why I wasn’t more upset by the change in me. The transformation had been as wild a ride as anything I could imagine, and everything had been so unusual since, I couldn’t get my balance. Physically, sure, but mentally and emotionally, everything was swinging around like one of those nausea inducing fairground rides. Trying to get control in the middle of the maelstrom was all but impossible.

I closed my eyes and tried some deep breathing exercises. The hailstorm of inconsequentialities continued to rattle on the window pane of my inner-most self; impossible to ignore to start with, but as time wore on, I found I was able to put them to one side. I don’t know how long it took – no watch, no clock – but after what seemed like forever, my mind began to clear, and the calm inner me that had held things together so far expanded to fill all of who I now was.

I thought about sleep again, but it was as far away from me as it ever had been. A glass of warm milk should help, but I’d need to disable the alarm if I wanted to go downstairs. I made my way back to the master bedroom and stuck my head in.

He was still snoring, still in the position I’d left him with his legs hanging off the end of the bed, his shirt and his trousers loosened. I turned to the panel and disabled the downstairs sensors. A blip of paranoia had me run a diagnostic on the outside sensors, and they all came up in the green.

Peace of mind is worth a lot though, and I was able to breathe easily as I headed for the stairs.

I tried to analyse the walk and what was different about it. I’ve often wondered why women’s backsides tend to swing backwards and forwards the way they do, and I came to the conclusion after feeling the way my newly acquired woman’s backside moved that it had a lot to do with leverage. My hips were much wider, the torque between the base of my spine and the hip joint of whatever leg I was standing on was that much greater, and the strength in my muscles that much lower, it was easier to let things swing than to keep everything level. I don’t know, the sensation was actually quite pleasant as well, so maybe there was a bit of choice in the matter too.

I was unusually calm despite having to face so many issues. How to change back into me before the bank opened on Monday, how to deal with Portia, what to do about Tony. They were massive questions. I guess the whole lot was too much to face, so here I was hiding in a cocoon of sensation, and finding I enjoyed it. The feel of my bare feet against the hardwood floor, the awareness of all the quiet sounds and smells in the house, the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of day old polish from the furniture, even my own subtle scent, they were all things I would have overlooked usually, but somehow my senses were heightened to the subtleties. I loved the weight of my hair, and the way it brushed against my back, the soft caress of my nightdress against my legs, the way my breasts bounced. The sensations were alien to me but, different as everything else was, I found myself enjoying being a woman.

I set a pan on the hob and added a mug full of milk. While it was heating gently, I rinsed out the glasses from earlier and added them to the dishwasher. We had a maid come in to do the cleaning so it really wasn’t necessary, but the mundane action was soothing, helping my mind to remain calm.

I poured the milk out, filled the pan with water and left it to soak, walked out to the conservatory where I sat to enjoy the garden. There was a half-moon up, and a clear sky for once, so I could pick out all the features of the garden in shades of light and dark. I supped at my milk and let my mind relax.

I thought about Laura and the way she was coping in my body. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her that way. We’d have to find a way to swap ourselves back. I felt an unusual pang of regret at the thought, but it was only fair. The only reason she was in this mess was because she’d been trying to help me, and because I’d broken the only means of changing us back.

Only? Maybe not. If Tony had recognised the bowl the first time he’d seen it, maybe he’d come across one before. Maybe there were others out in the world. Maybe Laura’s could be fixed. We may not have been on Tony’s list of favourite people anymore, but I had money – well technically Laura as me had money – and with someone of Tony’s temperament, money would go a long way towards answering the questions. It would be best to spend it quickly too, before Portia stuck her greedy fingers into the pot.

That was a thought. I ran through to the study and fired up my computer. Portia was pretty sharp legally and financially speaking, but late Friday night going into Saturday morning wasn’t the best of times to try and get an injunction to freeze our assets. I logged into our joint account to find it had been raided; all funds transferred into a new account in her name. We had savings accounts we could only access with both signatures; she couldn’t touch them any more than I could. Then there were the investment accounts I’d put together in my name once I’d figured out just what a scheming bitch Portia was. She knew about them of course. She’d asked me about the difference between my income and the amount I was bringing home, so I’d told her I was investing it against the future. Mine rather than ours, but I’d left that bit out. These were the accounts that an injunction would freeze, but fortunately none of the judges Portia knew suffered with insomnia, or were likely to be particularly happy about being woken up in the early hours on the weekend.

I used my bank manager privileges to sign the ownership of the accounts over to one Laura Townsend, and did the same with my shares in the bank. That would raise some concerned eyebrows among my colleagues, but it would at least keep the bank safe.

Next was the house which was pretty much paid for. The deeds were in the safe, but I’d need a lawyer if I was going to do anything with them.

One of my friends from university had emigrated to Australia after finishing law school. There wasn’t enough difference between judicial procedures to cause him much difficulty in transitioning, and he’d always loved the idea of living south of the equator. He was ideal from my point of view as he knew English law, he would be awake and at his desk, it being early afternoon where he was, and he was a friend. I sent him an email outlining the problem.

The reply came back a couple of minutes later, giving me the names of a couple of lawyers he didn’t think would mind being woken up at four in the morning if the price was right. I called one of them, introduced myself as Jerry’s assistant and explained the situation. He agreed to come over and sign as a witness to the exchange. I gave him the address and he promised to be with me within the hour.

While I was waiting, I dug the deed out of the safe, then as an afterthought, the log book for the car and some of the spare cash I habitually kept in there.

I practised signing my name a few times – Jerry’s name that is. The pen felt enormous in my dainty hands, but my handwriting was still pretty much the same. I also practised signing Laura’s name. I didn’t have anything to compare it against, having dropped her handbag at Tony’s party, so I’d have to come up with evidence for the new one, but that shouldn’t be too hard. The account ownership needed examples of her signature, and I had the relevant forms in my briefcase.

I filled out the change of ownership details for my Mercedes, then signed it twice; once as Jerry, once as Laura. The new owner’s address promised to be a problem until I realised I was about to sign this house over to the same person. The DVLA might scratch their heads over the addresses being the same, but there was nothing to stop me from doing it.

The lawyer arrived at around five, pretty much as promised. By then I had the deeds laid out and signed, along with a letter declaring that I (as Jerry) had bequeathed the house and all its contents to me (as Laura). I explained that Jerry was upstairs, sleeping off a booze binge, and offered to take him upstairs to show him. I’d placed a stack of banknotes on the table next to the deed – five thousand pounds in fifties, a reasonable fee for someone who was prepared to come out all this way in the middle of the night – and he found no pressing need for proof.

He witnessed and dated the transfer of ownership and offered to take the documents and put them in the system for me. He had some work to do in the office that morning, and he would be glad to do it. Apparently he’d suffered through a messy divorce himself, and was very much on Jerry’s side.

He signed and dated an affidavit to witness the change of ownership on both the car and the house and left with a smile. He even took the car’s change of ownership notification to post.

There had been a little over ten thousand in our joint account and maybe fifty more in the joint savings accounts. What I had just secured for myself was worth millions, and it was out of Portia’s reach for good now. She could ruin Jerry’s name with her accusations – despite there being no proof of infidelity, mud has a tendency to stick when it is thrown – but she wouldn’t walk away from this with anywhere near as much as she’d hoped.

Dawn was breaking. I made myself a cup of coffee and stepped out into the dew soaked garden. The birds were greeting the dawn with their usual cacophony of birdsong, and I stood with my eyes closed, taking it all in. The rough, damp grass against my feet; the cool of the gentle morning breeze; the sounds of the wildlife; the gentle sting of the early morning rays against my face; the rich, inviting smell of the coffee. There may never have been a more pleasant experience in all my life.

Of course it didn’t last.

-oOo-

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Comments

A new Item Universe?

Like the Medallion of Zulo and the M.A.U., we have the possibility of a new way of changing bodies. Now, it's a mind/soul exchange device rather than a body modification device. The Oaken Bowl 'verse?

Looking forward to the next chapter.

The Oaken Bowl

There's a name I could get my pen around. I like it.

The concept for the bowls came from a half remembered thing I'm sure I was told once about an African tribe where before a man was allowed to marry, he was made to live as a woman for a year before-hand to give him an idea of what his wife would do for him in future years. I figured, add a bit of magic and why not make that if you're going to put on another's shoes for a while, how much better would it be if you could have their feet while you were doing it?

M

I am Thorinella Oakenbowl, Queen under the Mountain. Smaug wouldn't have stood a chance against a dwarf with PMS.

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

Well the bowl did break...

... I guess we'll have to see. Woudn't mind that kind of stuck-ness though...

M

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

nice start

shadow fall's picture

alot happened all over one night nice set up
story looks like get the money or the girl or go for both hope its both :)

Thank you

Jamie

I've read this before - not!

When I first saw the premise I was a bit disappointed, as I had an idea that your story would follow a familiar pattern. But it quickly became evident that your writing skill would make even a mundane plot line enjoyable, and then...oh, my goodness! I simply love what you have done here. A story and characters I can really care about. I absolutely adore when someone takes a tired trope and sets it on its head. Bravo!

SuZie

Thank you

Sometimes you need to resort to variations on sometimes overused ideas to get a story started. I'm not ashamed to visit old tropes, but hopefully I make them my own. I hope the rest of it pleases as much. As I commented in the preface, it gets quite a bit darker later.

M

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

Ahhh....

Reading this was like slipping into a nice warm bubblebath. I look forward to the shock of someone pulling the plug out and sending it into an exciting spin!

I would love to get a chance to proof-read your work - it is a joy to read, and I know what a pain the little niggles can be to track down.

I am glad that I have something truly quality to read, especially since Minikisa has been waylaid by Real Life for the meantime.

Cheers!

A.

Bubblebath mmmm

I had one of those today. Water just a little too hot, hair done up in a top-knot to keep it dry, and read a book till I was wrinkled.

I plan to change the water a couple of times with this story, so don't get too comfortable... :)

M

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

Bubblebath mmmm

I had one of those today. Water just a little too hot, hair done up in a top-knot to keep it dry, and read a book till I was wrinkled.

I plan to change the water a couple of times with this story, so don't get too comfortable... :)

M

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

Well, this is interesting. A

Well, this is interesting. A failed marriage a body switch... and a nasty coworker. I wonder what is going to happen next.

Thank you for writing this captivating story,
Beyogi

Wow what a start

Lots of stereotypes to start the story. Middle aged Bank Manager, Trophy wife thats the bitch from Hell, Bad "neighbour" who probably deserves the trophy wife (hopefully they will find each other by the end of the story). What a great start. I cant wait for the next episode

Great Start

I really enjoyed this chapter and can't wait to move onto the next one. I love the way you've developed the Jerry character and the mystery around Tony and the bowl.

cheers
Zapper

Promising opening

A very promising opening; I look forward to the rest. And I'd be willing to proofread whatever stories you're planning to self-publish.

One issue, though:

She said she'd either walk away with enough of my fortune to bankrupt the bank, or ...... Either way I’d be left considerably poorer, and the bank – my dad’s legacy – would founder,

I don't know how UK law differs from U.S. law, and I'm hardly an expert on U.S. law either, but what I remember from my one law course in college is that a business the size of a bank, even a small bank, will probably have some corporate structure that protects its assets against lawsuits against its stockholders and vice versa. So the worst case is that Portia would get Jerry's controlling interest in the bank, but wouldn't be able to take the bank's assets directly. (She might could use her controlling interest to mismanage it to death, but she'd be shooting herself in the foot to do so. And maybe she could liquidate it, but it would probably be worth less that way than if she sold it or continued to let it run and pay her dividends.) But maybe it works differently in the UK.

Love the story so far

Love it. Good read and plot can't wait to read the rest

Unbelievable

Just a few pages in and already this is one of the best told stories I've read. Needs to be published. Kindle? Print, I'll buy it in a heartbeat.

Great, great opening!

Thank you

I hope you still feel the same when you get to the end of it.

Maeryn Lamonte, the girl inside

Boy was I wrong.

Valcyte's picture

I just discovered you and your website at Metamorph. I don't recall commenting here but I think I did leave you a message there. The Bewitching of Charlie Thatcher was a wonderful read. I had seen this series posted on the homepage of BCTS but my initial impression based on the plot summary was that it wasn't for me. Boy was I wrong!

Val

Switching everything over to Laura?

Hypatia Littlewings's picture

Desperation? Assumption that this is likely permanent? Serious trust of someone he just met? All of those? There are quite few implications there!

So is that bowl a one of a kind?
>i< ..:::

hmmm

Dawnfyre's picture

I get the impression Tony was plotting to get access to the trophy wife and the money.

great start.


Stupidity is a capital offense. A summary not indictable.