SRU: The Huckster free porn video

This story has adult content in it. If you are under 18 or are offended by such material, please go no further. With the exception of "The Old Man", "Spells R Us", and other creations of Bill Hart, these characters and situations are my creation. AFAIK there is no CAYCON organisation. I authorise Mindy to archive it on Fictionmania, and anyone can download one copy for themselves. No distribution or archiving is to be done otherwise. Enjoy. SRU: The Huckster by Albedo Jones wandered through the huckster's room again, looking for he knew not what. His spending money was almost gone, and he had only found half of his must-buy list. Everything was so expensive, but the hick town he lived in had no decent comics shop, or any good bookstores. CAYCON, the local area's annual SF convention, was his once-a-year chance to hit up the bigger dealers and traders, but travel to the convention and his one-eighth share of a twin room at the nearby motel ate into what funds he could scrape up from his part-time job. High school graduation was coming up, and after that the local college, maybe, if his folks could cough up the tuition. He didn't hold out much hope, though. He turned to watch a couple of Narns stroll past, and thought again that he could really use a good hall costume. He was hopeless at making stuff, though, and he'd have to buy something, and a good costume would cost serious bucks - bucks he didn't have. He stopped, suddenly, at the bottom of one of the aisles, in front of a curtained booth wedged into a corner between a table filled with ratty comics (not even bagged) and an array of cheap Spanish replica swords. This wasn't here last time he looked... The sign said 'SRU Costumes - to fit any size and any pocket'. He counted his remaining cash - twenty-five bucks and some loose shrapnel, enough to eat tonight, breakfast tomorrow and pay his share of the gas back home. Of course, if he didn't eat tonight... Hell, he could afford to lose a little weight. He was a typical fanboy, with a slight roll of fat hanging over the belt of his jeans. Let's see what this place has to offer, he thought as he pushed his way through the curtain. The sound of haggling and commerce faded away abruptly as the curtain fell back into place, and he found himself in a sort-of tent, a lot larger than he had reckoned from the outside. Maybe the entrance led through a door in the convention centre's main hall into another room, he thought as he looked around. On one side there was a rack of replica weapons. He recognised the M41A assault rifle, standard issue for the Colonial Marines, the classic bugbuster, but this looked somehow realler than the resin-cast replicas on sale elsewhere in the huckster's room, more metallic and heavier. A Klingon batlith hung underneath it, looking razor-sharp, and was that dried blood on one point? There were phasers, Klingon disruptors and other classic handweapons of SF film and TV, lightsabres that seemed to call out to be hefted and wielded, that said 'This is the Real Thing.' He reached out a hand and... 'Can I help you, Mr. Jones?' came the voice behind him. He turned, startled, to see a little wizened man wearing a decrepit old bathrobe. He was accompanied by the biggest dog Jones had ever seen, which looked up at him with some intelligence, tongue hanging out of a fang-filled mouth that seemed to smile. 'Interested in some weaponry, perhaps? We have some of the finest energy weapons in the known Universe, you know.' 'Ah, um,' (how did he know my name? Oh, my badge. OK, ten out of ten for sharp eyesight, he thought, completely forgetting his badgename read 'Spondo the Magnificent'). 'I was looking for a hall costume, but...' 'What sort? Generic, custom, TV series, film, book...' The old man opened a big book on the table beside Jones (and where had that come from, he wondered distantly). 'I, um, I've only got 25 bucks.' 'No problem. We can find something you'd like for that. It's the last day of the con, and I'd rather turn a profit now than take my stock back to the shop tomorrow. Now, what's your fancy?' 'Star Trek.' He said, without thinking. He was old-fashioned, in a curious way. He watched the newer series, sure, but his heart was with the show he had grown up with, in its endless cycle of syndication. 'Classic, TNG, DS9, or Voyager?' They both turned and pretended to spit after the last name. Jones laughed. Maybe this old guy was OK after all. 'TOS.' he said. Forget Picard, he wanted something from the Kirk era, when the Prime Directive was there to be broken in a good cause, and the Klingons were scheming bastards, without the Appliance of Science stuck to their foreheads. We come in peace, shoot to kill, and stun settings were for wimps. Star Trek Classic, definitely. 'OK.' The catalog was open to pictures of original series uniforms. 'Command, Science, Engineering or Security?' 'Definitely not Security. I'm too young to die.' He joked as he looked at the pictures. Wow. These were neat-looking outfits, cut just right, and appearing on the models just as they had on the actors in the syndication runs. He admired the mini-skirted female outfits, with their long legs defined in black tights. Hubba hubba. 'Command, but surely these are too expensive.' Good-quality kit like this had to cost, and even badly-made costumes similar to these sold elsewhere in the huckster's room for three times his current wealth. 'No, I said I'd put you into something you could afford, and I'm a man of my word.' The dog made a sniggering noise, and both of them looked down at it. It almost looked embarrassed, and lay down with its muzzle on its paws. The old man muttered something about the peanut gallery, and then returned to the matter at hand. 'OK, Command gold it is. I've got an Ensign's uniform that will fit you to a T, with a few quick alterations.' There was another sniggering sound from the floor, but they both resolutely ignored it. 'Twenty-five bucks will cover it.' He relieved Jones of the crumpled notes, and turned him towards the curtain covering the exit. 'Walk this way, Ensign Jones.' He stepped out of the curtained booth, and noticed things had changed, suddenly. He was no longer wearing jeans, but something much snugger around his legs. His sneakers were replaced by blocky-heeled ankle boots, and there were some straps wrapped around his back, shoulders and chest. His chest... He almost resisted the urge to look down, and regretted it instantly. The neckline of his new gold fabric outfit plunged daringly, giving him a fine view of the milky-white masses of flesh filling the top of a Star Trek, original series, Federation Star Fleet Ensign's uniform. Female. Female. Hold on a minute! How... He turned, and nearly fell, unused to the boots and their effect on his balance. What had the old man done to him? And where had the booth gone? He looked to the right, at the racks of swords, and to the left, at the comics-laden table, but there was no booth, no curtains, and no sign there had ever been any there, just bare wall with a couple of anime posters gaffer-taped to it. He leaned forward to get line-of-sight past the obstructions on his chest. There was a trim waist below his new acquisitions, and the minidress' skirt flared appealingly over broad hips, before stopping abruptly high on dark- nylon-covered thighs. Oh boy, he thought, somewhat inaccurately. He felt behind him, where a well-padded butt met his exploring hands (and what slim hands they were, too). If that is accurate, then what about... Oh shit. Ice flushed down his skin, and he went to grab at his crotch, before realising he had an audience. Three fanboys were giving him the up-and-down eyeball treatment he himself had handed out plenty of times at cons. He turned to glare, and they lost eye contact before turning away, trying to pretend they hadn't been ogling. Shit, I nearly gave them an eyeful, he thought as he turned again to stare at the wall again, willing the booth to somehow reappear. It didn't work. OK, let's find out just what sort of a mess I'm in, he thought, as he carefully made his way out of the alleyway. The fine fabric covering his legs rubbed together at the knees as he walked, weight somewhat on his toes courtesy of the blocky heels. His hips swung by themselves, the geometry Down There being somewhat different to what he had been used to up till now. The weights on his chest were trying to live a wild, dangerous life of their own in synchrony with his stride, but he resisted the temptation to grab them and hold them still, realising the tightness around his shoulders indicated some kind of brassiere doing its best to contain the foreign masses. He came to another costumer's stall, with a full-length mirror outside. The sight that met his eyes exceeded his expectations. She was leggy, she was curvaceous, she had blonde hair piled in a complex conical knot on the top of her head. She wore shadow around Bambi-wide eyes, and scarlet lipstick on bee-stung pouting lips. Her neck was slim, with no Adam's apple visible, leading down to the overhanging glory of her bust. The gold velour fit like a glove, with no wrinkles or creases, and leaving everything to the imagination. Elegantly rounded legs clad in dark smoke descended to brown ankle boots. She was the very epitome of an Enterprise yeoman, a sight to make James Tiberius Kirk's heart yearn for a personal one-on-one debriefing session. Oh, shitshitshitshitSHIT. What the fuck am I going to do, thought Jones. He noticed a tricorder slung over his shoulder, and unslung it to examine it, anything to distract him from the reflection in the mirror. It had heft and weight, like it was meant to work, and the top flipped up with a chirruping noise, as a little display came into view. Behind this was some kind of storage compartment, and he found a hotel room key in there. Where it had come from, he had no idea, but it suggested somewhere to hide until he could sort out what had happened, and how to reverse it. His shared motel room was a mile away, and inhabited by seven lust-filled male teenagers. He wasn't going there, no way, uhhuh. The keytag read Rm 407, and he turned to head for the huckster room exit and the hotel's elevators. He got three proposals, one of which was for marriage, before he got to the fourth floor. A fanboy spent the entire trip in the elevator breathing heavily over his shoulder as he copped an eyeful of the goods on display in the decolletage of the minidress. Jones realised he was no longer his normal just- under-six-feet, but a mere five foot two or so, even with the assistance of the boots. This was getting weirder and weirder... He was walking towards the room when he saw a drop-dead gorgeous figure approach wearing an Elvira costume, waist impossibly narrow in its corset, a trifle unsteady on her stiletto-heeled boots and hampered by the Morticia-tight ankle-length skirt adhering to her legs. At any other time, he would have paused to ogle, but right now he needed to get into the room. They both turned at room 407, and both of them tried to push a key into the lock simultaneously. Jones was no 4.0 student at high school, but he was usually quick on the uptake. He looked at the girl in the Elvira costume looming over him on her stilts, and said 'The old man?' Her face relaxed. 'Yes. In the booth.' she said in a breathy voice. 'And it disappeared, right?' He finished opening the door as she nodded, and they entered quickly. He pushed it shut firmly behind them, locking out the convention and the problems and embarrassments their turn of fortune had brought them. His guess was that Elvira was no more female (originally) than he was, and this was semi-confirmed when she collapsed onto one of the beds and started crying. Between the tears he found out Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, was an sixteen- year-old gamer from the local town called Jim Preston, or Duke to his friends in the scratch football team he played nose tackle for. He'd been after a vampire costume, and ended up twisting his ankle a couple of times on the heels as his ribcage was crushed agonisingly by the corset he found himself clamped in. He'd eventually noticed a tiny little purse slung over his shoulder, with a room key in it, and like Jones, had headed for the haven of room 407. 'Can you get me out of this thing?' Duke breathed, rubbing the corset. Jones got him to turn around, and started fighting the lacing and the knots with fingers a lot weaker than his standard issue ones. The almond-shaped nails (with white pearl lacquer) got in the way, until he had the sense to use them as picks against the tight lacing cords. After a few minutes, the instrument of torture loosened sufficiently that they could disengage the catches along the front, and the damn thing came off. Duke took a deep shuddering breath, and stretched. 'Oh God, that feels good.' Jones sat on the bed opposite, watching the figure of Duke rub his ribs. Now that the corset was no longer supporting and controlling his (her?) breasts, they moved disconcertingly above the massaging hands. He didn't get to see that kind of hot girl action, at least not outside the kind of magazines you read with one hand. He rated Geekazoid on the school's pecking order, just above the computer nerds, and he didn't - well, had never had a steady, make that any kind of a girlfriend. He felt a familiar/unfamiliar warmth in his gut, but unaccompanied by the usual incipient woody. Oh. I can guess why, he thought. His hand stole up to his own recent enhancements, and he cupped one breast appraisingly. Hmmm, he thought, it's *different*, certainly, but not what he was expecting. He noticed Duke looking at him, before he too raised his hands to do the same. A look of puzzlement came over his face. 'Ummm.' Said Duke. 'I sorta thought that...' 'You mean,' he replied, ''Hot Lesbo Chick Action' has been *lying* to us all these years? Dammit, I trusted those guys!' 'Must've been.' His face fell. 'I was sorta looking forward to having these, for a while at least, but if they're no fun, why bother?' Jones had an idea, which turned out to be inspired. 'Well, it might be it takes two to tango.' 'Two?' Jones had already moved forward, and both slim manicured hands locked on their targets. A little circular motion, a little finger- tweaking, and Duke's blood-red lips parted in shock - or was it something else? Two foreign hands lifted his own bounteous gold-encased flesh, and the icefire he had anticipated from his solo efforts earlier lit off. Suddenly it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Jones, geek-around-school, male, hormone-riddled, all-comers jackoff champion of twelfth grade to press his lips to Duke's, to push his tongue through the gap between Duke's teeth, to fall on top of Duke's luscious form on the bed, to... When he came to rational thought again, the memory of fire lingered in his abdomen, his tights and panties were tangled around his ankles, and he was staring at the Holy of Holies, a FEMALE PUSSY, only a few inches away. There were lipstick smears on the labia (Biology had been boring when they were slicing and dicing frogs, but the Human Reproduction classes had been *very* well attended, and he had earned his only A grade of the course after endless poring over the diagrams in the textbooks, memorizing what the various parts of the female genitalia were called...) and he soon realised they were the same shade the yeoman in the huckster's room mirror had been wearing on her lips - her facial lips, that is. Stocking-clad thighs disappeared above his head, and Geometry took over from Biology. If he was *here*, then Duke was *there*, and that meant... that meant Arithmetic muscled in on the act, and the number sixty-nine was involved. French, soixante-neuf, and that meant he probably had similar smears on similar A-grade components, blood-red this time. Finally, his mouth reported for duty, informing him the taste on his tongue was salty. He hurt all over. He had never felt so good in all his life. A tiny, madly rational part of his brain gibbered and shouted 'Does this count? Am I off the mark? Has my cherry been popped? Am I no longer suitable bait for unicorns?' but he didn't really care to listen, and rolled slowly off his heavenly resting place to lie staring at the ceiling. A hand, Duke's hand of course, trailed lazily up his abdomen and came to rest companionably on his breast, seeking nothing but contact. He sighed. In a cluttered shop unit in a location not nailed firmly enough to the space- time continuum, an old man in a faded bathrobe chuckled at the view of a hotel room currently being displayed in a rather ratty-looking scrying-glass. 'You're an old pervert, you know that?' came a voice from about groin- height. A casual observer from the mundane world would have worked their way through several possible explanations as to why it appeared the large grey dog (or average-sized wolf) had uttered those words. Hallucination, ventriloquism, even a radio transmitter in the collar (what collar?) - of course, the true reason was simpler, but not really very mundane. 'And?' he chuckled again. 'I love it when a plan comes together.' 'You actually watched that show? You're more warped than I realised.' 'Aw, come on. When do I ever get to have some fun?' 'All the time, you geriatric deviant. You're a disgrace to the AARP.' A bell rang, jingle jangle, through a doorway. The old man turned. 'Come on, another customer to satisfy. I have a cunning plan, my lord, which cannot fail.' 'Now that series was funny. Why is it the British can do good comedy, and Americans can't?' The odd couple walked/padded through the doorway, brushing aside a concealing curtain, and were suddenly a long way away from the shop, only just next door, too, sort of. An observer, listening in on the resultant conversation through the curtain, would have heard a nasal teenager (male, of course) in the huckster's room at CAYCON inquiring about the purchase of a costume suitable for someone taking part in a live-action Dungeons and Dragons game. Meanwhile in Room 407, exhaustion had turned to curiosity again, and Jones was trying to head for the bathroom. The fabric wrapped around his ankles made a rather effective hobble, though, and he had to spend a couple of minutes untangling it and wrestling it back into place before he had full and free use of his legs again. Duke, still reclining on the bed, was mostly out of his long tight black dress, but looked particularly fetching in the garter belt and stockings that had survived their earlier madness. The lacy black panties hanging forlornly around one slim ankle were a nice touch. He wore no bra, the corset having been the sole visible means of support for his two dependents, but Jones hadn't lost much of his own outfit in their rush to get sweaty with each other. The sight of the plumbing brought on a sudden, previously unnoticed requirement to use it. Oh pish, he thought. Well, time for another novel life- altering experience. He lowered the toilet seat, mentally cursing the (presumably male) idiot who had left it raised, then undid his earlier restoration work on his underwear and tights before sitting down. His feet didn't touch the ground, another reminder of the height he had lost in the conversion. Now what? He could feel the pressure, but what would release it? He squirmed, trying to operate various things 'Down There', searching for Ms. Sphincter. He discovered some interesting muscles, but not what he was looking for, although he made careful note of them for later. Finally, the pressure gave way in a familiar rush, from an unfamiliar position, and with a very unfamiliar noise. 'Ahhh.' The flow dribbled to a stop, followed by a couple of short bursts, and he figured he was running on empty. Good. Now what? Clean up, he supposed. It felt a little damp, so he rolled off some toilet paper and gingerly wiped between his legs. The tissues felt odd against the other soft tissues they rubbed against, but he was sort-of expecting it, and it only made him squirm a little. He squinted at the tissues, and was horrified to see red stains. 'I'm bleeding. How'd that happen?' He stared again. Had Duke bitten him in their frenzy? Had he taken his vampire schtick too far? Another thought struck home. Am I having a period? Eeeuuuw! He stared again, and a memory resurfaced. Lipstick. A big sigh of relief. No problem, then. He stood up, flushed, and rejigged the tights yet again before going over to the mirror vanity in the corner. The face that looked back at him was not the immaculate vision he had witnessed in the huckster's room. The eye shadow was smeared, the lipstick was badly worn and the ornate hairdo was a tangled mess, beyond hope of reconstruction by a seventeen-year-old geek inexperienced in such things. He searched amidst the ruins, and pulled out a surprising number of pins and clips before his hair fell down around his shoulders in a heavy blonde shag. Five minutes of vigorous finger-combing brought it into some kind of natural-seeming order, although he had been a minimal-maintenance crewcut guy before he had entered the booth, and having hair that fell below his shoulderblades seemed to promise a lot of work. More reasons to get back into that booth and get his genes respliced. A glance at the clock indicated the huckster's room wouldn't close for a few hours yet though. Time to explore strange new worlds, to boldly go where no man (well, excepting Duke, and only by stretching the definition of 'man' a lot) had gone before, and rack up some warm memories for the cold times of famine and poverty to come in high school Hell. The dress came loose after some arm twisting and yoga-like contortions to get to the zip under the back of the collar. He stepped out of it, then kicked off his boots and (yet again) slid down the gold panties and unrolled the tights. He was left wearing a rather substantial and well- filled white fabric (satin?) bra, with impressively strong-looking elastic straps, and matching white bikini briefs. Some more fumbling behind his back (Gods, I need to get more practice at this, at least from the outside...) freed the bra's catch, and the compressed flesh made an abortive break for it. ('The elastic canna take it, Cap'n!') He slid the brassiere down his arms, and finally got a good look at the latest additions to his porn collection. Tens. Definitely. Perky without being insoucant, no droop, large three- stage strawberry nipples crowning the snow-white peaks, substantial without going over the top into hyperbole. On his rather small frame (a hundred pounds, and five of those hair) they dominated his upper chest. Keepers? Well, if they were attached to a girlfriend, maybe, but these ones had to go back to the shop, money-back guarantee or no. He had enough trouble explaining his comics and books to his folks. They didn't really understand about conventions, and they had occasional bursts of worry over what might happen to a 'young man away from his family at one of those things'. If he had to go home like this... He slid down the panties, completing the strip, and stared again at the Site of Special Scientific Interest between his legs. He tried mentally overlaying what he was missing on what he was currently outfitted with, and decided that it wasn't going to fit, physically or esthetically. An exploratory finger found Gunningagap, and after a scrape with the edge of a wickedly-sharp nail taught him some caution, he penetrated Terra Nova. Um. Flesh within flesh. He tried analogies - mouth, ear, nostril, but none of them were close to the New Reality of muscle and mucous membrane where none had been before. A second finger joined its adventurous cousin, and the Dark Continent made it similarly welcome. Um again. His thumbnail brushed 'something', and it lit up with an electric shock. Wow. Another Bio class label popped into his memory, 'clitoris'. It didn't make up for what he had started the day with in the same general location, but it felt like it could be fun giving it a run round the block... He was enjoying himself too much to notice Duke sneak up behind him, although when those devilish hands started making tracks across his already- sensitised skin, he could only give in to the fire, and even when they ended up in the shower, doing rather obscene things with the demountable spray nozzle even 'Hot Lesbo Chick Action' magazine hadn't had the guts to publish the pictures of, the fires continued to burn as the shrieks and giggles climbed in volume. Back in the shop, the scrying-glass was getting steamed up, from both sides. The old man wiped at the surface with the cuff of his bathrobe, but to no practical effect. 'Damn, I wish this thing came with audio.' he muttered, trying to squint through the fogged glass. 'You were too mean to buy the multimedia kit. I told you, but would you listen? And now you can't. Listen that is.' The wolf sniggered again. He knew it annoyed the old man, and he practiced it assiduously. It was a direct steal from Muttley in 'Catch that Pigeon', another of his favourite TV shows. He reserved his Scooby-Doo impersonations for very special times, but the last time he had tried that one on the old man he had spent a week as a cartoon Great Dane, running everywhere with binka- binka noises. Urghh. OK, Daphne was cute, but Shaggy could have showered more regularly, and he still couldn't figure out what was so great about Scooby Snacks. The old man gave up, and covered the glass again. No use using up its 'pray- per-view' spell when there was nothing to see. He had a fine imagination, though. It was a requisite for his trade, of course. The recent would-be barbarian hero was a fine example. He was still outside the booth's location/nexus/probability point in the huckster's room, hoping against hope to return his costume. Of course, there were some technical difficulties involved if he had actually wanted to go someplace else, even more than the would-be vampire had had with those ridiculous lace-up stiletto boots and tight skirt, but that wasn't *his* fault, was it? He had only given the kid what he had truly wanted, deep in his own heart. Besides, the old man was a hundred bucks up on the day, and any day that happened was a good day for him. Jones sat on the bed to pull on his boots, as Duke worked on the long black Elvira dress. He had discovered a long slit along one side, currently secured with dozens of tiny little buttons, and he was unpicking them, a few at a time, before holding the skirt to his legs and squinting to estimate just how revealing the slit would be. At the rate he was going, Jones thought, he'd only stop when his navel hove into view. Still, it would improve his manoeuvering ability somewhat, allowing him to take half-decent strides, even in those deathtrap stiletto boots. The hotel room was otherwise empty of clothing - what they were wearing was what they had to face the world, or at least a drooling pack of fanboys, in. Given his current shape, he'd have preferred plate armour, or something even less revealing. 'Do you want a hand getting laced into the corset?' he asked, pointing to the offending item protruding from under the bed. Duke gave him an are-you- crazy look. 'There's no way anybody is going to get me into that rib- mangling thing again.' 'I dunno, I thought you looked kinda sexy in it.' 'You should try it yourself. You're the right shape right now, after all.' Duke held it up to him. 'I'll pass, thanks.' It had been embarrassingly difficult to get the bra back on again, and he had needed Duke's help with the back clasp. Duke dropped the corset back on the bed. 'Besides, we need to get down to the huckster's room. It'll be closing soon, and we *really* need to return these costumes.' 'OK, but how do we find the booth? It's not always there, especially when you really want to find it, and believe me, I really wanted to find it.' 'I've got an idea about that.' He gestured at the dress. 'Are you OK in that thing now?' Duke stood up and moved about the room. There was a lot of leg, an occasional flash of stocking top and once even a glimpse of a garter strap. He seemed to be a lot more confident on the four inch stilettos as well. 'Let's go.' he said. They left for the elevator, room keys in hand, as Jones explained his theory to Duke. 'I reckon that old bastard is a skinflint, and he hasn't actually paid for his space in the dealer's room. That's why the booth isn't always there. It only appears when a possible customer goes by. I was thinking about a costume, and hey presto, a costume booth appears.' 'Same here.' Duke smiled. 'Hey, I think you're right!' 'So we go down to the huckster's room, and think 'I could really use a new costume' and the booth should appear. Then, we go in and get rid of these ones.' Duke's face fell. 'And if it doesn't work?' 'We fall back on Plan B.' 'What's that?' 'Live with it.' 'Oh.' The elevator arrived, and they descended to the basement floor housing the convention space. The jerk at the end of the trip set masses in motion in the top of Duke's dress. The male jerks in the elevator were very appreciative of the show, but Jones and Duke ignored them and hurried on to their destination. The alleyway in the huckster's room was the same as before, with no booth. It was not, however empty. Kneeling on the floor was a girl wearing too much and not enough at the same time. The only clothing involved was a thin semi-transparent shift covering her upper body and a pair of silk briefs. The rest of what she wore had a non-optional air, in that it was made of either leather or steel, and was secured by locks. The collar looked to be very heavy, and the gag covering her lower face must have been incredibly uncomfortable. Her wrists were trapped behind her back in slim polished manacles, and there were similar bands clamped around her ankles. Her face was tear-streaked, and she had obviously been waiting here for a while. She looked up piteously as the two figures approached, whimpering desperately. Jones looked down at her. It didn't take a genius to figure the old man had been at work again. 'Ummm, what do we do?' asked Duke. 'Well, if we get the booth to come back, we can get her, him, whatever, back to normal.' The slavegirl nodded vigorously. She really liked that idea. 'OK.' Duke faced the booth's putative corner. 'I'd really...' 'Excuse me, ladies?' came a voice from behind them. 'I was told...' They turned, to see a rather skinny loincloth-clad barbarian with a broadsword at his side come down the aisle to them. 'Ah, there she is.' He spotted the girl kneeling on the floor. 'I'm in the live-action game that's running, and I was informed by a mage there was a slave here for me to collect.' He pulled the girl to her feet by one arm. 'Nice outfit.' he whispered to her. 'Really in-character.' She shook her head vigorously, but the boy didn't take any heed. 'Come, wench!' He said stentoriously. 'My warrior band awaits my return. Tonight you shall dance for us at our camp!' He led her, chains jangling, from the alleyway. Jones and Duke were dumbstruck, and could only stand, open-mouthed, as the girl cast one last piteous glance back at them. 'Shouldn't we go after them?' Duke asked. Jones turned to follow, but the PA system in the hall boomed. 'Huckster's room will close in five minutes. Five minutes, folks. Please make your purchases and then make your way to the exits. Five minutes, folks. Shake it.' 'No time.' said Jones. 'We've got to get ourselves sorted out, right now.' He faced the corner again. 'You know, I'd really like another costume.' he said in a loud voice. In the silence of the half-empty hall they heard a distant bell ring, jingle jangle, and suddenly they noticed the booth was there again. It hadn't appeared, or arrived, it was just that, however hard they had looked before, they had just missed seeing what had been in plain sight all the time. Neat trick, thought Jones, as they quickly pushed through the curtain across the door, fearful it might slip away again. The old man and the dog/wolf came through the other door, and stopped short on seeing the two familiar figures. They didn't get much repeat business, as a rule. 'No refunds!' snapped the ill-dressed old coot. 'All sales are final!' Jones felt Duke slump beside him. Dammit! This guy was able to read minds. How the hell could he deal with him? How would Kirk have dealt with a similar situation? He glanced down, and for the first time in minutes, remembered he was in Star Fleet uniform. By Holy Klono's brazen balls, he was an *officer* in Star Fleet, a junior female officer perhaps, but he wore the uniform of the best fighting force in this sector of the Galaxy, and they never backed down and they never gave up. Never. Jones straightened and went into the attack. 'Goods which harm the purchaser, or cause deleterious medical effects, are not of merchantable quality per se.' he replied, making up the lawyerese as he went along. 'As such, the sale of such goods constitute a voir dire contract, not enforceable and automatically reversible. Give us our money back, and take back the costumes.' The old man and the dog looked at each other. The dog shrugged (and how does a dog shrug, wondered Jones?), but the old man was more resilient. He reminded Jones more and more of a Ferengi with an ear bob. He certainly seemed to cleave to their First Rule of Acquisition - 'Once you have their money, never give it back.' 'And if I don't?' he blustered. 'Then we take it to the mattresses.' 'And how do you propose to do that, young lady?' he was smiling again. He knew it was a bluff, and Jones hesitated, but only for a second, before inspiration struck, from memories of old Civics classes almost forgotten. 'You're a businessman.' The old man nodded. 'Odd kind of business, certainly, but a businessman nevertheless. As such, automatically, there will be some kind of standards organisation with oversight over your business practices, and with enough clout to sanction you when complaints are received.' The old man started to look worried again. Jones pressed on. 'In fact, I'd guess your dealings with Duke and me are part of a pattern of bad business operations, and I'll bet the equivalent of the Better Business Bureau has a file a foot thick on you.' Ah, that one had gone home. 'You really don't want to add to that now, do you? Change us back, give us our money back, and we are outta here. Otherwise we start filing paper...' The old man caved in. 'OK, OK, OK.' There was a sudden wrench, and Jones was no longer wearing gold velour, but his old bluejeans, sneakers and a Malochia T-shirt. It turned out Duke was a chunky kid, a couple of inches taller than Jones with a face that had been used to stop a touchdown a few too many times. He was wearing chinos and a jacket-of- many-pockets, with a camera around his neck. Jones quickly checked his equipment, not trusting the old man to have left a zinger somewhere. Certain alien bits were missing, and certain other bits had made a welcome return to their former home in his jeans. He felt a slight pang of regret at losing the other attributes so soon before he could explore their delights even further, but he had to take this one chance to get back to normal, or as normal as he ever got. He noticed that Duke seemed more interested in checking his camera equipment than himself. He finally checked the contents of his pockets, shifting the room key from hand to hand, but the twenty-five bucks were there. 'OK. Be seeing you.' 'Next year?' said the old man. Jones and Duke stopped, intrigued. They hadn't thought of that possibility. 'Would you, perhaps, be interested in renting costumes?' countered Jones. The old man looked suddenly a lot friendlier. 'Now there's an idea. Some wear and tear on the stock, but no capital losses. Hmmm.' 'I could let some of my friends know about your special services.' The old man beamed. 'For a commission, of course.' His face fell again. 'I've got to give it some thought, boys. There are rules, after all, as you so kindly pointed out. I'll see you next year, though, and we can discuss it then. Drop by any time.' The dog smiled again, in farewell. Jones turned and hesitated - was that... naah, it was probably one of the video hucksters outside playing a Scooby-Doo tape. They went to push through the curtains, and were met by a serious- looking young man with a clipboard and a puzzled expression on his face. 'Are you two the owners of this booth?' he asked. 'No.' Jones hooked his thumb back over his shoulder. 'He's in there.' 'Well, whoever he is, he owes the convention commmittee for three days rent of this pitch, and I'm here to collect.' He pushed bast the two boys. They looked at each other, then ran like Hell. An explosion and a rumble of thunder followed them, and as they gained speed and swung around the turn, they could see smoke and lightning flashes coming from the booth, which billowed as if blown by a hurricane. It seemed the old man was royally pissed off. They made it to the hall entrance just as the gophers were locking up. Now everything was over, Jones felt a great sense of relief. He looked up at Duke, and tried not to think of what they had been up to a couple of hours ago. Duke caught his look, and shrugged. 'I wouldn't worry about it.' he said. 'That was then, and everything is different now. Want to grab a coffee?' They wandered into the coffeeshop, and grabbed some pastries and the biggest jug of the strongest brew the counterdroid could lift. They talked for an hour, discovering they had dissimilar tastes in music, politics, comics, almost everything, and got on great. Jones attributed that to their original method of getting to know each other. Perhaps, thought Jones, if everybody got acquainted with each other by indulging in torrid lesbian sex, the world would be a better place. More interesting, certainly. He had a sudden vision of CNN reporting on a major political summit in that universe... The coffee jug was nearly empty and they had rechristened their original plumbing in the men's room at least twice each before Jones realised they still had their keys to room 407. 'The old guy isn't as smart as he thinks.' said Duke. Jones nodded. 'I could do with a night's sleep without getting trampled at four in the morning, or a pair of gamer's socks wedged in my face.' He tapped the key on the table. 'Of course, he was probably going to stiff the hotel for the room rental anyway, but as long as we're out early tomorrow, they can't trace *us*, 'cause we never signed for these.' They went up to the room, where more evidence of the old man's carelessness came to light. 'Hey, look!' said Jones. 'The tricorder!' He held it up. 'I forgot to take it with me, and the old guy's spell or whatever musta missed it.' Duke held up the discarded corset. 'And this.' He rushed at Jones, laughing. 'Wanna swap?' Jones tried to fend him off, but Duke was bigger and more muscular, and he wrestled the loose corset around Jones' waist. There was a click, and Jones said 'Oh no, not again!' Duke stepped back, aghast, as a much shorter Jones stood up. His clothes, with one exception, were baggy on him. He caught a glimps of his changed appearance in the vanity mirror through the bathroom door. Elvira was wearing bluejeans, sneakers and a rather lumpy Malochia t-shirt. She had a black leather corset fitted snugly around her waist, and an astounded expression on her face. 'What the fu..?' The booth would be gone by now. The old man wouldn't be back for a year. He was stuck like this! 'Duke, you idiot! Look what you've done! Aaaargh!' Duke looked dumbfounded. 'Hey, I'm sorry, Jones. I didn't know it could do that.' He fumbled at the front of the corset. 'Maybe if we take it off...' The catches snapped free along the front coupling, and Jones heard another snapping sound, as Reality shifted around him again. Back to normal again. Jones checked all those important bits, several times. Still there, thank the Great Ghu. Duke was holding the corset and looking at it speculatively. 'Here goes.' he said, and wrapped it around his own waist. Jones saw the change from the outside for the first time. For a fraction of a second, there were two figures, one within the other, where Duke stood, then the larger, male, chinos and vest one blinked out, leaving Elvira in oversized chinos puddled around her feet, and her shoulders swathed in the bulky vest. Her waist was gathered in by a snug-fitting leather corset. 'Gee.' she said, in a voice three octaves higher than Duke's basso rumble. They sat down to discuss the situation, after getting Duke out of the corset again. 'It'd make a great revenge tool.' Said Jones, turning it over and over in his hands. 'Haven't you ever wanted to get your own back against the football jocks...' he stopped, suddenly realising his black belt in Faux Pas had dropped him in it again. 'Nope.' said six-two nose tackle Duke in an exaggeratedly deep voice, but with not quite a poker face. 'Besides, all they need to do is take it off, and hey presto they're back to normal. Then how do you recover the corset?' 'You're right. A guy can dream though, can't he?' 'No. You'll only be able to use it on yourself.' The idea hit them both simultaneously. 'The girl's changing room!' Another moment's thought killed that idea. Some unknown woman comes in while the girls are changing, it's just about as bad as if one of the boys sneaks in. Damn damn damn. 'So if I want to look like Elvira for a while, I can do it. Could be fun anyway.' Duke held the corset possessively. 'Any chance you'd be willing to share it sometimes?' asked Jones. 'Maybe.' Said Duke. 'You've still got the tricorder, though.' 'Yeah, but it's not going to be magic, now, is it? It's Star Fleet Engineering, not cursed corsetry.' He picked up the tricorder, and flipped the top open. The little display lit up, reading 'Medical scan/store'. He thumbed the only lit button on the small control panel, and it made a warbling sound. He held it out to Duke, saying 'Let Bones check you out after your ordeal today.' Neat. The display showed a false-colour image of Duke sitting on the bed. He swept it down to his feet, and the tone changed. The display now read 'Medical scan/convert'. He swept it back up, there was a flash that almost blinded them both, and Jones was looking at his Ensign alter ego from the afternoon, dressed in oversized chinos and vest. The shocked look on her face was becoming somehow commonplace. He had been looking at shocked female expressions all day today. Some were on other faces, some were in mirrors. He should be used to it by now. Yeoman Duke reprised his grab-feel-confirm routine of earlier before returning his attention to Jones. 'It's just engineering, you said.' 'Ah, but there's always Clarke's Law.' 'What?' 'Arthur Clarke, wrote that film '2001', you know, the monkeys and the monoliths? They were showing it in the all-night film room? Well anyway, he said years ago that 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' ' 'So...' 'So this tricorder is a piece of sufficiently advanced technology.' 'Right, but can you make it change me back?' Jones looked at the display. It read Medical scan/restore. He hit the button again, and they were rewarded with another flash, and another restored and relieved-looking Duke. They sat looking pensively at the corset and the tricorder for a while, trying to come to terms with their possibilities. 'Hmmm.' said Jones, finally. 'And what does that mean?' 'Hmmm.' He paused for a moment. 'And we've got these neat toys. And we've got this room.' 'All night.' 'All night? We'd better stock up on some food, in that case. We're gonna need the energy.' 'Does the local 24 stock whipped cream and chocolate sauce?' 'Dunno, but we can find out. I wonder if they do avocado puree?' 'One question, though, before...' 'What?' 'Can I be the blonde this time?' In the moveable feast that comprised the worldwide headquarters of Spells'R'Us, the old man was taking the cover off the scrying-glass, tuning it into room 407, and getting ready for an all-nighter. The dog (or was it really a wolf?) was hunting a large frog with a worried expression on its face around the room. The frog still had a tiny clipboard clutched awkwardly in one hand, which made its hopping action a bit awkward, but the wolf (or was it really a dog?) provided the incentive for it to persevere. 'Oh, leave him alone.' he snapped, as the chase thundered past the table, shaking the glass. The dog stopped, and sat up, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. 'I could catch him anytime, you know.' He said. The frog peeped fearfully from below a cupboard in the corner. Dealers! Next year, it thought, I'll do something a lot less stressful, like Guest Liason. 'Yes, I know.' 'He doesn't know that, though.' The smile grew wider, and the frog burrowed backwards into his comforting sanctuary under the cupboard at the sight of the gleaming fangs. 'And?' 'I'd rather eat a Scooby Snack any day of the week.' 'So, you feel like eating a Scooby Snack, do you?' 'Ummm, no thanks, but I'll pass, if you don't mind.' He padded over to the table. 'They still haven't figured out you left them that stuff on purpose?' 'I had a bet with myself just how long it would take them to decide to use it. They beat my best time by ten minutes. Young people these days...' 'And don't you just love them?' The old man stiffened. 'Showtime.' The dog/wolf put his paws up on the tabletop, to squint into the scrying glass. The boys had returned from their shopping trip. 'Ohhh, interesting selection of stuff. I see they found some avocado puree. There's baby oil, lime jello, and is that clothesline? And clothespegs.' He shook his head. 'I wonder what two innocent young girls all alone in a well-soundproofed hotel room could get up to with that lot?' 'We'll find out soon enough, won't we?' said the old man, settling into the large overstuffed armchair that had appeared behind him. The dog's smile grew even wider as the two stared into the glass at the events unfolding in Room 407. Epilogue: Jones is in a prestigious college in Southern California, doing a Media Studies course. Graduates from this school are often fast-tracked into one of the professional training schools for film directors, courtesy of Hollywood's Director's Guild. He is doing particularly well. His tutors are especially impressed with his insights into women's issues in film and TV - indeed it was a well-received essay on the roles of women in 1960's TV that got him the place on the course, as his academic transcript from high school was not too impressive. He pays his own (rather high) tuition fees as he has some kind of irregular, but well- paying job that occasionally takes him away from his studies for a few days at a time. He has a safety-deposit box in the local bank, which he visits before and after such trips. He has no steady girlfriend, but gets along well with other female students in the college, who find him considerate and understanding (and a refreshing change). Because of this, he gets laid regularly. Duke has graduated from high school, and is studying photography part- time at a small art college in New York State. Surprisingly, he already has his own rather lucrative commercial photography business, with his own studio, good-quality photographic equipment and in-house development facilities. He also has a small but very secure safe built into the darkroom. He has a regular contract with several men's magazines, as he is the only photographer secretive identical twin models Sabine and Sybil (last names not known) will work with. These two exploded onto the magazine field six months ago, when a portfolio of pictures landed on the photo editor's desk at 'Hot Lesbo Chick Action'. He immediately realised the possibilities of the two blondes who seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of exactly what turns men (and boys) on, and signed them up though their agent/photographer, Duke, although the magazine had to settle for a non-exclusive contract. More upscale magazines have also made approaches, and it is believed that Playboy will be offering them the Xmas cover this year, wearing classic Bunnygirl outfits. In addition, Duke has recently signed up a new model, curiously enough called the Duchess (with a trademark corset), who has the fetish magazine market clamouring for her services. Rumour has it that Sabine (or Sybil, no one can tell which is which) will be appearing in some B&D photospreads with the Duchess in times to come. He plays nose tackle for a local amateur football team. Sometimes, his gorgeous cousin Joan from California will turn out as a cheerleader when he is playing. Life is good, and they still occasionally get together at SF conventions (all six of them). (the end)