Chapter 1: Beginings
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mind Control, Magic, Fiction, Humor,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: Beginings - This is a book that I have been working on for some time. Kinda stuck on the finish and may have to rewrite some of it, especially the ending. Comments are welcome on this one and even sugestions as long as it's not scrap it. Enjoy.
Dark oaks and beeches surround the hovel, buried somewhere in the middle of an ancient deciduous forest. Rays of sunlight, that should have known better, punctured the canopy sending dazzling, golden shafts pointing arrow straight, almost on to the dilapidated thatched roof. I say almost, more accurately, the shafts of light somehow refracted at about six inches from the rotted reed surface, and seemed to spray out at alarming angles that destroyed all known laws of physics concerning light and it's properties.
The laws of light, and many other accepted rules that have been taught to the blotting paper like minds of pupils over the centuries, had little in common with the area surrounding the chosen opening scene of this little tale. But, I will not bore you with a list of each, or how it doesn't apply in this instance. Some, may become apparent during the course of the telling, but, suffice it to say, some strange physics make contributions from time to time, as well as quite a few bends in the normal run of things.
It is widely accepted by most, if not all biologists, that many animals have a rudimentary command of communication. This in many cases, is made up of squeaks, shrills, barks and huffs, usually signalling alarm or calling to members of the herd to keep a contact. Speech is only associated with humans, being the only member of the fauna of Earth that has a developed voice box, and the necessary brain matter to assimilate the sounds transmitted by fellows, and make sense of them.
Call it poetic license, call it fancy, call it what you like. Here goes...
A typical day in the dusty corners of the ramshackle hovel, would find many creatures, either furred or not as the case may be. These animals are broken into two main categories, those who wandered in by accident, and those who were committed by deeds both foul, or magical.
Some of either could talk.
"Get off my bloody tail... Fat Oaf."
"Eh? Oh! sorry, got things on my mind." The cat lifted its front paw off the mouse's tail.
"Didn't see you down there."
"I may be small, but give us a break for crying out loud, you could have done some serious damage there, as it is I'm not altogether sure that it will straighten out properly any way." The mouse began to yank and pull the tail from the tufted end, by putting it in his mouth and tugging hard enough to unbalance his rear end, further adding to his indignity.
"What have you got to worry about fer Chrissakes anyway, fed every day, with enough food to feed a small army? (Cannot remember the collective name for a group of cats, if there is one) And then, sleeping the rest of the day away, curled up on the windowsill. Little bit of a cuddle now and again from the old woman. Nobody giving you a hard time, or trying to make you into a square meal every chance they get. Yeah, you got real worries." The mouse gave a good enough impression of a haughty sniff, which was quite impressive, given that he still had the wrong end of his tail hanging limply from the side of its small mouth.
"Oh." The cat sighed. "It's 'er, she's starting to worry me a bit. It's the quickening coming on and she's done bugger all about it yet. That means she'll be flying about like a lunatic for the next few weeks in a complete panic, and guess whose goner be the familiar?"
Agetha, kept the cat for the irregular jaunts into the wide world, to act as her eyes and ears. It was the cat's job to search out, and find likely victims, and report back through the peculiar mind link that had been developed over the years. Agetha saw, felt, and heard all that surrounded the cat through its senses. Handy when you're in a tight spot, or trying to avoid letting everyone know that you're well and truly in the area.
"Yeah, but how often does she use you for her little trips into the Outlands? Every seven years is it? How bad's that when you think of the benefits you get?"
"I suppose, but, when she leaves it late like this, all hell breaks loose, so that instead of a nice little jaunt into the wilds, we have to race around like headless chickens until she finds what she needs. God only knows what'll happen if she can't find a suitable donor in time." Although, he knew very well exactly what would happen if she ever allowed the time to expire.
Tom, the mouse, gave his tail another tug, and started to clean his whiskers while he thought about the cat's predicament.
"So, when are you going out again?"
"Dunno, but it's just gotta be soon."
"What's the rush?"
"Let's put it this way, if she can't find a suitable man within the next three weeks or so, she reverts to her true age."
"She's over five hundred years old, that's quite a pile of dust."
"Yeah, but don't all her magic's die with her? You'd be your old self again, and so would I."
"I've been with the old crone for half her life. That's a pile of dust too."
"Yeah, but I would only be two weeks older than I was. I could go back to my family, and be a baker again." A little selfish streak had entered into Tom's way of thinking.
Tom, the mouse, had gone to see Agetha for a potion or some such, to enhance his baking, and become the more prosperous of the two Bakers in the village. It wasn't that he was greedy, far from it, it was just that he wanted to be the best that he could be, and serve his customers to the very limit, still using the second rate materials available from the local, second rate farmers, who complained about the second rate bread and cakes. He was every bit as good as the other baker, let's face it, anybody, given the equipment and a boyhood filled to capacity with his Fathers knowledge, could bake as well as the next man. It doesn't, however, arm the prodigy with the necessary wherewithal to find a suitable wife, and prospective partner in either the business, or matrimonial senses. Unlike his rival, whose wife was ambitious with a hankering for the good things in life that money could supply, and the only way to get that was to make it. Removing the opposition from the equation would help no end. His find, Tom's, that is, and I use find in a flippant kind of way, was not exactly useful to him. It wasn't that she was lazy, no sirree. Nobody could beat her when it came to operating her mouth to either eat or nag, more that she lacked interest in whatever Tom was doing, including baking, and making advances of the nuptial type. Her only interest other than food, was her Daughter, who had made it something of a life long entreaty to be a carbon copy of her mother, and was showing exactitude beyond description. Tom had made two bad decisions. One, marrying Gertha, and two, making a baby with her. (Wedding night, extremely drunk, and mistaking her snores for the throes of passion.)(Sad bastard really.)
He last saw his wife and only daughter, two weeks ago, as he set off up the hill to Agetha's cottage, some distance of the beaten track. When he left the house, his family called him Tom Baker, (really). Now, they call him missing, presumed dead, praise the Lord, where's the insurance certificate, and come to that, the insurance man looked as if he could be beaten into submission quite quickly, into a loveless marriage, and then annihilation.
What Tom didn't, nor even could have known, was that his rival in business, had already paid Agetha a large sum of the trade coin to put a guise on Tom. Firstly to hinder Tom's business, but also that if he tried to get, even a little spell or potion to enhance his position, something horrid would be the result. Agetha, although no man's friend, was at least true to her word. Tom hadn't even had time to scratch his head, before he was scratching a very furry rump, with a long, hairless tail attached.
"Come to think of it, I could just wander off someplace, rather than go back to that fat old bitch, (meaning his wife.) and her ungrateful pig of an offspring. I'm sure she can't be mine, (meaning his daughter.) nasty little cow, any way, it would be nice to be vertical again, and go hunting, rather than being the quarry, and another thing, it would be really good to eat proper food again, instead of the bits of crap that fall from her chin."
"Messy aint she?"
The cat mused. It was so long ago that he had been tricked into Agetha's service as a familiar that his name had been forgotten and even I don't know what it is and I'm telling the story. Tom would have been a good name I suppose, seeing that he's a he, but I've already given that to the mouse so I guess the cat remains nameless. It's not really important in any case is it?
"Time for me to do the rounds." Continued Tom. "There's a nice little white mouse that's just dying to be courted, you know how it is with us mice all shagging and eating. I suppose it aint a bad life really; it must be several years since I got a legover from the wife and look what that produced. This way I don't even have to see the offspring, let alone listen to it squawking."
"But you only live for a couple of years, even if you make old age which doesn't happen very often in the rodent world does it?" His comment regarding the metabolic rate of mice was quite accurate. In Tom's case however, where he had had very little of the sexual type of excitement in his previous life, and he was making up for lost time, his prospected span was about half that of the majority of the rodent population.
"Yeah, but what a way to go." Tom tried to wink, unsuccessfully. "You try shagging ten times a day and see how long you live. See you later." Tom would have rubbed his hands together if he could have. Instead, he contented himself with a quick lick around his snout. He still wasn't quite used to the elongated nose or the over developed front teeth, but heck, who looks at the mantelpiece when stoking the fire etc.
"As long as she's alive, I'm immortal". He said more to himself. "That really pisses off the local cats when I beat the living daylights out of them. Anyway, don't wear it out with over use will you." The cat turned around three times in ever decreasing circles before crouching down in the sunlight coming through the window and closed his eyes.
He wasn't wrong about the predicament that Agetha was in. She had a lazy streak that was as wide as her rear end, which had grown to gargantuan proportions since her last quickening. Agetha had two main weaknesses; both would end in a terminal case of obesity in any normal person. Her first love was food, prodigious amounts of the stuff. Anything edible had little chance of seeing the sunrise on the morrow, in fact; a lot that wasn't edible to most people suffered the same fate. Several cardigans had tried in vain to outlast the attentions of Agetha's teeth, but usually ended their brief lives being masticated into component parts between her molars. It was Agetha's other love that could prove to be the demise of the ancient carcass. Agetha was fond of lying in bed, or sitting in her rocker pondering the mysteries of life, to the point of being professional at it. She made a living of sorts sharing her musings with the locals. Days could go past without Agetha moving any muscle other than those used to make her jaws work and her heartbeat. How did she eat or defecate I hear you ask? She's a witch, remember. They can make things move using telekinetic thought, handy if you're the worst case of slothfulness that has ever been recorded.
It was this second love that was causing the concern to her cat/familiar. If she could just get up off her fat arse and motivate her self, then everything would be all right. She could find a young man who was still innocent, (Okay, virginal), devour his heart and begin another seven years of life, starting with a figure that could knock spots off any young maiden fresh into the world. Deep, shiny red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back to just above the interesting parts. Even deeper green eyes that her familiar would have killed for. Breasts, for which, any man would suffer seven kinds of horrible deaths, and a waist that his girlfriend would scratch chalk boards with her fingernails until someone's teeth fell out. I guess that's the long way of saying, she would be drop dead, heart stoppingly gorgeous.
It wouldn't last, (when does it ever). Soon, her slothful ways would return, but not until she had made just about every available and non-available man in the near vicinity. This was a third love, but had limitations in the longevity department, owing to her second love.
Many years ago, some bright spark wrote up the laws of cause and effect. (My apologies to my teachers). Agetha was the cause; the effect was devastating to the local community. Agetha hadn't got many virtues and discretion certainly wasn't listed among them along with fidelity.
Many men found themselves, suddenly family less having shared an intimacy with a stranger who looked like the creature from heaven, and turned out to be the siren from Hell. Some how, their Wives and worse, Mother-in-laws, would be fully conversant with the sordid details of the little contretemps. Vengeance is mine, sayeth all and sundry, which left the poor, misguided, recently ostracised man, either nursing several lumps and bumps and wondering what had fallen out of the sky, or legging it down a very long road as fast as his legs would work and thinking of fire arms, mostly double barrelled, mostly pointing the wrong way, as far as he was concerned.
These rural rumpuses suited Agetha's method. Everyone was trying to find lost members of the household, from the male persuasion, and not looking for the originator of the fuss. Agetha would then slip away to her hidey-hole and vegetate, gradually, to her usual condition, which bore no resemblance to her erstwhile self. The transformation from raging beauty to monstrous gargoyle, took rather longer than the transformation, after devouring some unfortunate lad's heart, but then, the gargoyle lasted longer, so there is some kind of justice there, somewhere.
In any case, the cat was right. Agetha had approximately twenty-one days to seek out, beguile, and devour some poor wretch who hadn't yet lost his cherry, (to coin a phrase). If she didn't start soon and complete the ritual, then, she would expire in something of an unseemly haste, leaving a pile of dust that would join the rest of the fallen motes and conglomeration of accumulated grime on the floor, to be assimilated to the fabric of all of us. Dust to dust, and so on.
Agetha chewed on the cuff of her favourite cardigan. She had chewed the last favourite to a sticky, multi-coloured mush, which resembled an oil slick on water, rendering it completely useless.
She was thinking.
On her mind, was the fact that she would have to venture out, perhaps tomorrow, to find the life giving nourishment of a young, nubile (can boys be nubile)? Lads heart.
Actually, it had better be today. An insidious feeling had been gnawing away at the back of her mind that time was short, it felt short, and was feeling shorter by the second.
"Buggerit". Agetha had moved. Something of a momentous occasion. Or should I say monumental occasion, given that she probably weighed the same as three Prop-forwards and a Hooker together. (Rugby. See rules and game for explanation). (Something that's always puzzled me, are Monumental Mason's very, very big fat blokes who shake hands under their left knee in a secret Masonic lodge?).
"Buggerit". Agetha had moved again, twice in as many seconds. This was beyond momentous and went straight off the Richter scale, bending the needle and breaking the glass of the dial.
Agetha, was now standing, and slowly turned around, scanning the hideous mess that served as a hovel, (Witches have hovels, everyone knows that, we live in houses, they live in hovels.), looking for the cat. She squinted her piggy eyes tight and wrinkled her nose in the effort to see more clearly.
If I haven't painted a mental picture of Agetha up to now, please forgive the Authors reticence in attempting to describe the scene of her face. My English is woefully inadequate and so is my stomach.
The cat obligingly uncurled it's body, stretched, arched his back and yawned making a slight mewing noise so that she had something, with which to aim her focus on. It was after all, in his best interests to help the creature prolong her somewhat interesting life style.
"Puss, we have a job to do". Her voice came out in a thin, tremulous and tinny whine, which always surprised the cat. He expected a deep resonance to come from such a large body of flesh. Indeed, dogs, with only a fraction of her bulk, made rather more noise with a lot less to work with.
He jumped off the window sill and brushed himself against her leg. This was a mistake of the highest magnitude. The thick woollen stockings that she insisted on wearing, had developed a life of their own * and had also developed a hunger for cat fur. He was stuck fast and completely helpless, not wanting to tear half the only coat he had out by the roots in order to get away. He didn't get to decide on the best plan of defence because Agetha reached down with that telekinesis I mentioned earlier and tore him from the ravenous clutches of the vampiritic hosiery, leaving a good chunk of precious fur to it's fate. He floated up into her podgy ham sized fists and suffered the indignity of being shucked under the chin. He purred, because of the confused condition of his nervous system and it seemed like the right thing to do, under the circumstances.
"We're going abroad cat". Agetha announced, shrilly, in his ear. Fortunately, he had been rendered deaf in that particular ear sometime before meeting Agetha. He couldn't remember how it had happened, but he thanked whatever cat God there is for the good luck in this instance.
"It's that time again, and I feel lucky. I think we will find someone very quickly". The cat, prayed to its God for the second time.
"Now, where is our transport"?
It is largely believed that Witches travel on broomsticks. Not so. Think about human anatomy, more accurately, think about the anatomy of the female of the species. A broomstick, while having the obvious phallic references, does not have the facility of comfort, if you get my drift. Besides, Agetha was a modern girl, (how loose can you get with terms.) and had acquired, from some unsuspecting patron of her talents, a bicycle. (If modern was being loose with terms, then bicycle is a complete contradiction of terms.)
The tights had developed their own ecological system. Due to the fact that Agetha's movements were limited to say the least, the only life they could actually realise was if they imported fauna from outside agencies. Many generations of lice, fleas and less well-known mites, ticks and other little creatures had lived and died within the 120-denier haven. There were one or two drawbacks to this community of micro organisms living in close proximity to Agetha's flesh (a) a chronic shortage of natural food supplies. Her flesh was completely impervious to bites and stings, turning the various venoms and anti-coagulants back to the deliverer rendering them a terminal case of dead. (b) Agetha's magic leaked a little making the little blighters invincible. It was no good trying to treat them with the usual potions that rid us of these afflictions; the chances of doing them any harm would be so slight as to make it a totally useless exercise. The only control on numbers was the open hostility and warfare waged periodically between the different factions keeping the numbers down to a reasonable level that could live within the confines of the woollen hosiery.
(I can feel a descriptive passage coming on, but I'll leave it for now).
Agetha located the rusting heap leaning in a corner, rather like some old drunk, who had not seen food for the best part of his years, and, like a drunk, the bike was down on it's uppers. The tyres had perished long before the last time her quickening had taken place. The chain resembled spaghetti, it was made up of several rusted lengths of broken links, some joined, some not, wrapped around the cogs of the rear wheel and the crank, that once had pedals on it. The wheels themselves, resembled wheels to a point. A few of the spokes remained in place, several had been used as skewers, or hat pins, on the rare occasions that Agetha wore a hat. They, the wheels, were almost round in shape, with a little elliptical sort of displacement, and buckled, to the point of rubbing gouges out of the forks that retained them. All in all; perfectly serviceable to a competent Witch. Oh! I forgot the saddle, there wasn't one. A minor point really. Same as the paint that had lost adhesion, given up, and gone to the big paint factory in the sky many years ago. But, as I said, perfectly serviceable.
(That wasn't the descriptive passage I was thinking about. I was thinking about how to describe the sight of Agetha, plus cat, on the bike, pedalling like fury, seeking her goal. I'm going to hold onto that one for the moment).
The first thing that we all do when we are going on a trip is to make plans and preparations. Agetha did all that and got on the bike. (Saved some space there didn't I?) The last thing we do after shutting the front door, is forget the gas, electric, answer phone, note to Milk Man, or notify the neighbours. Agetha, didn't have any of these, so what had she forgotten? Beats the hell out of me.
(Now for the descriptive passage, ready?)
Picture the scene if you can. A part, un-built, falling apart bicycle, with little paint, or moving parts, or even a saddle. A small wire basket, hanging by one remaining nut and bolt, which held on through sheer belligerence to the front handle bar mounting. The basket, contained a reasonably large ginger tomcat, that had been stuffed into it, head first, and then pummelled down to fit like a Japanese commuter on the underground system. The cycle, travelling approximately two feet off the ground, which avoids all the ruts in the road, but decapitates, bushes, saplings, and any animal that stands above two feet, and couldn't hear the silent running of the hover bike, with the creature from the nether world, sat astride the cross bar. Agetha, immobile, as I'm sure you've worked out by now, is a horrendous sight. Not quite on the scale of Medusa, turning people into stone, no, she, Medusa, thinking about it, was rather more kind to the unfortunate victim, their brains turned into stone, along with the rest of them. One glimpse of Agetha, would render the viewer helpless, and cabbage like, for the rest of their natural lives.
Floating two feet above the ground, on a past it's sell by date bike, dressed in what can only be described as a well chewed cardigan of indeterminate colour, a black pointy hat, with the point listing at a precarious angle, red hair streaming out backwards, forwards and upwards all at the same time, from under the brim of the hat. A face sat upon a body, that is basically an extremely short, Anaconda shape, after a big meal of something like an Elephant. Thick woollen stockings, with half a cat pelt adhered to them, wrinkled and sagged around thick, hairy ankles. A black dress completed the ensemble. The dress was voluminous in the least, and was made up of many yards of ink black material, that had been woven several centuries ago. The whole vision, moving at about twice the speed a man can run, leaving a swath of lopped bushes, animals, and atrophied observers, in it's wake.
Now, can you visualise what she looked like? Or, do you want me to go into the finer details? Like, the only thing that was small about Agetha, apart from piggy eyes, was her nose. Reasonable size on most people, on Agetha however, a wart would have looked better. Facial hair is never becoming on a woman, on a witch, it is only slightly un-nerving, on Agetha, it took on a whole new dimension.
Agetha was oblivious to the surroundings that flashed past her vision. She didn't have the time, or inclination to observe the devastation that trailed behind her. Occasionally, a tree would have the temerity to have grown in her path. Depending on it's size, it either, suddenly, found it's root system sucking up moister from pastures new, or had developed, between one split second and the next, a roughly, squatting human shaped hole through it's trunk. In either case, the tree never recovered, to the point of producing leaves again, which usually proved fatal.
After two hours or so, of cutting a straight line through a forest that had stood the ravages of millennia, with only the occasional mishap, caused by hurricanes, and such like natural disasters, they crested a small rise in the lane, that hid a small village, nestling in a valley just below them, comprising of about twenty cottages, a couple of barns, and an inn. It looked promising, and had not been visited for many years, to the best of her recollection.
Agetha, steered the rusting hulk into a thicket of trees and dismounted. The bike, relieved of it's load, fell apart some more, before leaning against a tree with a mental, metal sigh.
The cat, realising that it was about to be extracted from the basket, took only it's second breath in two hours. The first breath having being in a vain attempt to puff itself up, so as to be too big for the basket. Agetha placed him on the ground and he fell over, his legs stiff with cramp. Carefully, he uncoiled, first the front two, wincing at the return of feeling, as blood found vessels empty from the journey, and nerve endings, began relaying synapses to his brain, with the message, 'You can sort this out'. The unravelling of the rest of his body held no less discomfort, but, straightening his tail, won hands down in the how do you feel stakes. If you have ever seen the reaction of a cat with it's tail caught in the door jamb, or singed, by a stray spark from a fire, you would be able to understand the spitting, fur raising mayhem that afflicted the poor creature for thirty seconds or so. Gradually, he settled down, only for Agetha to complete his utter misery by standing on the newly returned to life appendage, sending him into paroxysms, claws, fully extended, let me at 'em fury.
Agetha on the other hand, was quite comfortable, having spent the last two hours mentally sitting in comfort, on the cross bar and willing the decrepit machine along. She was also, totally oblivious of the cat's distress, or of the distress it was causing to her stockinged legs. Globules of flesh and hosiery flew every which way, liberally coated in blood, until she shifted to peer over the hedge that was providing cover to the fracas. The cat thought briefly about delivering a killing bite to the back of her neck, but thought better of it in the end.
The small village, seemed to be as unaware of the goings on behind the hedgerow, as Agetha was. The chimneys above the thatched roofs, directed little spirals and curlicues of wood smoke up into the sky. The few cattle that stood in the pasture, behind one of the cottages continued to masticate, (I love that word.) in blissful contentment. A small boy was chucking pebbles at an earthen pot, set up on a tree stump, and a dog, was frantically scratching at a door, where a bitch held more than a little fascination for him.
Agetha muttered an incantation to herself, and waited the obligatory few seconds, before giving the final command words of the spell. It may have been perfectly acceptable, to have expected a blinding flash, and the smell of burnt ozone. Nah. The air, sort of shivered, and Agetha, metamorphosed, into a reasonable looking member of the race. Her stockings repaired themselves, as did the cardigan. Her unkempt hair straightened out, and lay flat, in neat tresses. Her skin underwent a smoothing out operation. Within a few minutes, Agetha was unrecognisable from the hag that had stood there before. It was an illusion with a limited life span, the spell could only last for an hour, two at most, but long enough for her purpose. She meant to have a reconnoitre in person, initially to see how the land lay.
Ten minutes later, she had entered the Inn. Being the soul of the village in the absence of a shop, this seemed to be the most logical place to start. The barroom was deserted, except for the Landlords daughter, who at approximately fifteen years of age, made Agetha, even in her worst condition, look quite acceptable. Ugly, is an ugly word, but in this instance, would be showing the unfortunate girl a kindness. She stood about five feet six, tall for her age, and in her bare feet. The smock dress that wore her, had seen better days, probably not in her, or her mother's lifetime. The holes had been patched with differing pieces of coloured fabric, and the patches had been patched, several times, little of the original actual garment remained. Her hair lay in lank strands, framing a withered and pinched face, covered in, what looked like, measles spots, but were in fact, pustules of acne, in the most severe case that Agetha had ever seen in her five hundred years. She took pity on the girl, and muttered another incantation. The air shivered around the girl, who promptly became a shrew, with bald patches. It skittered away, behind a coalscuttle beside the fire place. Agetha's sense of rightness was a little askew, but her heart was in the right place, just above her left hip, approximately where most people keep their appendix.
"Bother". Agetha said aloud.
"Can I help you"?
A deep bass voice came from the doorway behind her, making Agetha jump slightly. The owner of the voice had silently crossed the threshold without Agetha's hearing. It's a foolhardy thing to creep up on her, let alone surprise her as well.
Agetha, quickly recovered her composure, and found her voice.
"Oh! I... I'm just passing through, and stopped for refreshments".
"Aint open". Another foolhardy treatment, when confronted with her, was to be anything less than totally subservient.
Agetha couldn't quite make out the owner of the voice. Her eyesight was not up to it, and the sunlight on his back, made him a silhouette in the doorway, but he was big, that she could see, and he also had a lot of hair around his face.
"When will you be open then"? Agetha let a touch of annoyance into her voice, she wasn't used to being treated with so little respect, nor, was she used to being made jumpy. Anyone who knew Agetha usually avoided her like a plague victim, but, when contact was unavoidable, making Agetha jumpy or nervous, was the last thing on their minds. Rather, What a nice lady, and what time's dinner, or my dental appointment.
The Publican didn't know Agetha, and, judging from the disdainful note in his own voice, wasn't keen on making their brief encounter, anything more than an extremely brief encounter. He was, it seemed, totally oblivious of her allure. He was also, momentarily unaware of the significance of the unintelligible mutterings that accompanied the small waving of her hands, but, he realised just what it all meant, very soon after.
"Later". He replied. "Now lea... eee... eee... eee."
His little nose twitched as he tested the air and looked for a safe place to hide. Agetha had turned him into her favourite animal when casting spells on men.
Agetha explored the village for a little while, unfruitfully. Country folk are often described as simple, (as in a tale of everyday simple country folk.) this lot, took the piss. The whole village seemed to be sharing the same dysfunctional brain cell. Of the three suitably aged louts that lived here, only one, had the gumption to be able to respond to Agetha, with anything more than a grunt, and he had a speech impediment, as well as being too stupid to get remotely beguiled. She gave up, and almost did the world a favour by flattening the place, and all it's occupants, but somebody has to feed the cows.
Tom wasn't having it all his own way either. A week ago, he had been the new mouse on the block. Female mice aren't too fussy when it comes to romantic relations, and any new blood, causes a stir in the community. The females, unwittingly, see it as an introduction of different genetic material, giving their offspring, a better chance in the ever-changing world of rodentdom. Had they the facility to reason things through, they may have wondered a little about the flatulence the latest litters seemed to suffer with, and a sudden interest in standing upright. I guess some DNA traces remain, even after transformation from mammal to rodent.
Mice however, have short, or no memory spans. His reign as the stranger in the wood shavings was doomed, to be all too short. Seven days to be precise. A new male came into being, with a rather fetching pink nose and white ears. Tom was no match, and declined the offer of fighting to the death, deciding that valour had no truck against life without it.
He moved on.
Stealthily, he pattered from the cottage door sill, behind an upturned flowerpot, and along an un-dug, and disused herb garden, towards the haven of a hedgerow. Instinctively, he paused every few feet or so, to scan the sky and surrounding area for the presence of a predator. He had learned much in his short time as a mouse.
After stopping three times, (basic mathematics says the distance travelled should be about nine feet.) he froze. A sparrow hawk was hovering above him, and was showing an unhealthy regard for his prospects of making the hedge. Tom unfroze, and bolted for safety, as fast as his little legs would go. It was a race between linear distance, and controlled, gravitational free-fall.
Tom was losing.
The hedge gradually began to grow larger in his eyes, but too slowly, so did the shadow of the hawk, but much too quickly, as it folded it's wings back into an aero-dynamic shaped missile, homing in on dinner with an unfailing accuracy.
Suddenly the hedge and his nemesis got, rapidly smaller.
The sparrow hawk, hit Tom on the back of his head, and knocked it's self senseless. Tom meanwhile, was desperately trying to scrabble into a hedge that was now a good deal smaller than him. He stood up, and rubbed the back of his head with his hand, then looked down on the bird, laying senseless on the floor. Tom realised that he was naked. Then he realised that he was naked with pinkish skin, with all the appendages, warts and all. Amazing how fast the brain works.
That was about the limit of his understanding, for the moment.
Several more seconds passed, before his brain really kicked into gear.
He turned towards Agetha's cottage, his previous home, trying to hide his nakedness with hairless hands. As he began to walk towards the sanctuary of four walls, he felt his nose start to twitch, and an overwhelming desire to drop on all fours. Tom stepped back, and the desire faded, along with the twitch. He tried again, with the same outcome. Obviously, he had stepped out of the spells range, and to return to the cottage, meant a regression to being one and a half inches tall, and three inches long, not including a tail.
OK. That's all right, but what to do about covering his dangly bits and getting warm again? Some thing that can to be said for carrying a fur coat, the cold has less affect.
He tried going towards one of the out buildings, with the same result as before. Nothing for it, he would have to go to the village, back home, and get clothed before his nether regions froze off.
He made it, eventually, without being seen, to the rear of his bakery. The ovens were off, and the flour sacks had been left out in the rain, setting them hard, and covered in a sheen of blue mould. Holes in the sacks had appeared, where the rodent population had made free with the meal. Tom recognised the tell tale marks with more than a usual interest. I guess some of the rodent traits remain, even after transformation, from rodent to mammal.
Tom, entered through the back door, and found his apron hanging in its usual place on the door. Some of his confidence returned once he had covered his embarrassment, and he cast his eyes around the bakery. Everything was where he had left it, albeit, covered in either dust or mould, depending on its nature. The lazy cow couldn't even make a living for herself, Tom thought, with an increasing annoyance.
His annoyance was to creep further up the scale, as he travelled through the place. The scullery was in total uproar, pots and dishes, had given up the unequal struggle to hang onto the kitchen sink in the vain hope of being cleaned, and landed on the draining board, and floor, in a riot of colourful splashes of dried food. Plates had grown cultures, in multi-coloured hues, some, with small stick like antennas poking up, for all the world like baby triffids. A colony of ants had set up residence on the window sill, and had a shuttle service, going down the walls and across the marble tops, to where they had established a farm for aphids, which were being fed on sugar that was carried from the overturned sugar bowl. Tom could only stand, transfixed for a moment, while his eyes surveyed the carnage, but not for long.
Mentally rolling up his sleeves. (still only got an apron on, which, by the way, was open at the back exposing his cheeks.)
"Right! That's it! I'm going to sort this little lot out, here and now! Where's that no good, lazy slut?"
Tom, marched through from the scullery, into the hall, stepping over a bicycle on the way. Where'd that come from, he thought, mentally rolling up his sleeves some more.
"GERTHA. GERTHA. Where are you?" It is fair to say, Tom was angry, and even fairer to say, Tom was bellowing. His father had built this bakery, his mother had lovingly kept it scrubbed and clean. Until, that is, she left with a teenage lad with altogether, too much influence on her. Tom had grown up, knowing love and security here. His father had had a way with the girls, and Tom had, on occasion, watched from the security of the loft.
Had Tom not had his little adventure, and lost some weight, through starvation and carnal pursuits, it would have been quite likely he would have had a heart attack by now. He heard voices coming from upstairs, and proceeded to stomp his way to the upper levels. Laughter reached his ears, something that had not been heard in this house since his childhood.
The sounds were coming from the parlour. Tom didn't bother with the handle on the door, he smashed his way through it. In all likelihood, had there been a wall were the door used to stand, he probably wouldn't have bothered to find the handle on that either.
The scene that confronted Tom, completely stunned him momentarily. Both his wife and daughter, were in a state of undress, having only their underwear on, which was slightly more than the Insurance man, who sat in the middle of the room, on the floor with one sock on and, nothing else. All three had turned towards to door way, where a door used to be, but now had an enraged, former mouse, standing in the hole, with bits of splintered door frame sticking out of his hair at funny angles. Each face formed a perfect 'O' in complete shock.
Next, came one of those pregnant pauses, that last for a second or two, but seem like an hour, and usually give birth to a frantic action scene.
Tom watched, unable to fully comprehend, as the Insurance man scrabbled for a pair of trousers, or anything to cover his genitals with. Neither of the two women moved so much as a muscle, still staring at Tom.
Doug, that being the insurance man's name, had managed to get most of his clothes on, and had begun to bum shuffle towards the window, with the intention of jumping out of it. He would have faced a drop of about fifteen feet onto the hard packed sidewalk, which may have resulted in a broken bone or two, but was hugely preferable to the wrath of Tom. It would have been preferable.
Tom, galvanised into action, and crossed the room at a run. Although he was not a big man by any means, at full tilt and with a well-aimed foot, he was devastating. Ribs cracked, a nose broke, and testicles would bear testament to the devastating effect of Tom's vengeance. The cuckolded husband, finished the demolition of Doug by stamping on his arm, resulting in more bones giving up under the onslaught.
The women meanwhile, had also found their clothing, but had tried to pull Tom off their quarry, instead of getting dressed. Gertha collected a backhand to the throat, while Hilda, the daughter from hell, had her front teeth knocked out by a flying foot, that had passed over the prone Doug and connected with her lower jaw, rendering her as senseless as the insurance man.
"Aaargh. Aargh aargh, ooogh ooogh aitssh." Said Gertha, which, roughly translated meant, where the hell did you come from?
Tom turned on the now, former wife. Divorce, figured largely in his plans for the future, his eyes slitted with blood lust, and beads of sweat flew from his brow from the exertion of beating the crap out of the trio.
Gertha, cowered into a corner, trying to cover all the vital bits of her body with inadequate arms and hands. He could have really enjoyed the sight at another time, seeing her quivering and snivelling as she was, and completely at his mercy, for the first time in their marriage. He could have enjoyed the sight, but filled with the sudden hate, anger, and disgust, all he wanted to see, was her, smashed to a pulp.
He got a grip on reality, and left the scene of carnage to go and find some of his own clothes in the bedroom. Not much was left, they hadn't wasted too much time getting over his apparent demise, only an old suit, that had been much too small two weeks ago, and a crumpled shirt, left in a corner. He found a pair of shoes under the bed, not his own, but a good fit never the less, and someone had thoughtfully left the socks tucked inside them. He quickly dressed and returned to the battle zone, limping slightly, from the bruise that was forming nicely, where he had kicked out Hilda's teeth. He hardly felt it.
Hilda and Doug had regained consciousness, and were groaning into each other's shoulders. Gertha hadn't moved from the corner, and was staring at an invisible point in front of her, like some catatonic statue.
"You can crawl out of here now, and don't ever come back." Warned Tom to them.
"If I see, so much as shadow of you, you'll form the basis of a very fat and meaty pie. Do I make myself clear, eh?"
Doug nodded, which was a mistake in his current condition, and tried to get to his feet, unsuccessfully. Hilda helped him and half dragged him to the door.
"Where am I supposed to go to?" It was a stupid question from Hilda, which sounded even sillier without front teeth, and a mouth full of quickly congealing blood.
Tom did not bother to answer, he just turned towards the quivering mass of flab that had, until recently, figured very large in his bed. She was still in the corner, shivering gently, from head to toe, and moaning under her breath, rather like a somnambulistic priest on speed, or some other narcotic substance.
"You too, bitch. Your stuff will be on the pavement in the morning."
Gertha didn't move, or show any signs of understanding, until Tom prodded her with his foot a little harder perhaps, than intended, causing her to slowly tilt, and then, when gravity took control, slide ever so gently to one side, until she lay sideways on the floor.
"I said, get out! Get out now, or, do you want me to throw you out?" A new quiet and calm authority crept into Tom's voice.
She got up slowly, turned blank, staring eyes at Tom, comprehension had gone on holiday, then, shuffled towards the smashed exit. Just as she got to the splintered door she turned and said "But..."
Tom bristled and cut off anything she may have wanted to say by turning away from her.
After the three had stumbled down the stairs, leaning against each other, like a group of inebriates, and found their way along the street, to wherever they would go. Tom, surveyed the damage.
Right, he thought to himself, now for Agetha. He rolled his sleeves up and began to clear the mess, while he plotted her demise, but how to get at her, with all her powers, would need some careful planning.