The Factory free porn video

This is the first story I've written for Fictionmania. It probably won't turn you on. But then again, it might. Who knows? Okay, explanation time. I am transsexual. However I am also a transvestite of sorts, which apart from causing me the occasional head-fuck means that I enjoy reading FM. However, I do find myself quite bemused by a lot of the plot devices present in the stories here; most particularly those, which focus on the protagonist being turned into some item of clothing. So I thought to myself: Aha! I could write a parody of that! Sadly, my parody failed. The Factory is not so much a satire as it is a manifestation of years of self-loathing. So here it is. And before you ask: no, I don't think people who read/write those sorts of story are sick, even if sometimes I don't understand them. I face too much prejudice myself to justify spreading any more. The only really sick person is, in the words of Ash, "Just me, baby. Just me." The original version is at the website above, and it's got proper italics and everything. Italics were used in the original layout to signify thought; in this plaintext version I've substituted hash signs (') that sit on either side of the text, in the style of HTML quote marks. Hope that's clear. There are one or two edits for clarity, and the line spacings been altered. It's a bitch trying to make the sort of dense paragraphs I write legible for text-only viewing, so I hope it's all readable, and all that. And now, repeat warning time: The Factory contains a lot of swearing, and a lot of violence. If you've ever been abused, don't read this story. If you don't like swearing, don't read this story. Remember, in the summary I said 'extreme violence'. That means blood, gore, abuse, weapons. I'm serious; this story is nasty. Oh, by the way; Jane's opinions on transvestites are in no way my own. Right, now that's out of the way... The Factory By Alyssa Amene Palin 2000, 2001 One: Twist Just a scared little boy, playing in the jewellery box Charlie lifted the cigarette from his lips and exhaled, watching the smoke from the tip curl up towards the light. The smoke from his lungs joined it a second later, and he smiled contentedly. He was in the slightly dazed state that affects most men after sex, when the body starts to shut down and prepares to sleep, surrounded by acres of warm duvet, whilst their partner shivers restlessly in the remaining three inches of mattress space, accompanied by a snoring that would wake Old Labour. 'There's something wrong with this picture,' insinuated itself lazily into his brain. "Oh, David, that was fantastic," drawled his companion. Charlie noticed that she had used the wrong name, but wasn't bothered because he wasn't sure he remembered hers either. It began with a 'T', he knew or a 'V'. Whatever. "I mean," she continued, exhaling her own smoke to join his, curling around the light bulb, "it's been a long time since I've been properly fucked, you know? I mean really, seriously fucked." 'Deep,' said a traitorous voice in Charlie's head. "How come?" "Oh, you know. There're too many men who spend all their time on foreplay because they've read in FHM that that's what a girl wants." Charlie couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. "Which is fine, most of the time. But sometimes I just want a nice deep thrust, and lots of drunken wiggling around." "Are you making fun of me?" The woman (Terri? Yes, Terri) shook her head. "Nah. I was pissed too, and it really was pretty good." Charlie made an insulted face. "Pretty good?" Terri slapped him, gently, on the arm. "Don't start getting ideas above your station," she said, giggling. "I told you you're just a husband substitute in the bar." *That* cut up through the haze of alcohol and satisfaction. Charlie sat bolt upright. "Shit! My wife!" "My husband," Terri said equably. "No! Mine's actually in the country right now. At home!" Maybe-Terri sighed. "I guess this is goodbye, then." But Charlie was already pulling on clothing and trying to wedge his feet back into his shoes. It was quite amusing to watch, really. Particularly when his cigarette fell out of his mouth and burned him on the nipple. When he was finally ready, he turned to Terri and garbled an apology at having to leave so fast, then legged it out of the flat. Terri smirked, and shifted her cigarette to her other hand. She waited until she could hear frantic footsteps disappearing towards the tube station, and then picked up her mobile phone. She selected 'Send Text Msg' and typed: SUBJECT APPREHENDED, SHAGGED + DISPATCHED. HOPE U DEAL WITH HIM APPROPRIATELY. TELL HIM HE WAS A CRAP SHAG. AND HE SMELLED OF VODKA. GOT THE TAPE. LOVE JANE XXXX PS CALL ME TERRI A minute or two later she received her reply: GREAT STUFF BABES IM GONNA DO HIM TMORO AFTER WORK. COME OVER IF U WANT AND BRING SOME ALKY AND THE TAPE. SIGNING OFF WITH EVIL CACKLE, LUV MICH XOXOXOX *** At work, all Charlie could think about was the flight case with the eight-digit combination. *** After making sure that Michelle wasn't around - and, as usual, she was still at work - Charlie ran up the stairs to the hallway and unhitched the attic door. He dodged the psychotic ladder as it suddenly detached itself from its catch - and, as usual, just failed to remove his head at the neck on the way down - and climbed into the attic. He pulled the ladder up behind him and closed the door, turning on the light as he did so. He did a final check to make sure his wife wasn't - for whatever reason - waiting for him in the attic. Satisfied that the coast was indeed clear, he tapped the code into the flight case he kept hidden in a trunk and opened it, completely failing to notice the camera in the darkest corner, recording every move he made. *** At the sound of laughter, Charlie rapidly composed himself. After putting everything away and secreting the flight case, he exited the attic and strolled nonchalantly down the stairs. Michelle stuck her head around the living room door and smiled. "Oh, hello," she said. "I thought you were up there." Her eyebrows formed the question. "I was wondering if I still had those golf clubs," Charlie replied, smoothly. "What was so funny?" "Absolutely nothing. The laughter you must have heard came from the telly: Birds of a Feather is on. Did you have a nice day?" He'd finished descending the stairs at this point, and leaned in to kiss his wife on the cheek. "Not really. Dull, repetitive, that sort of thing." "You couldn't make me a cup of tea, could you? Only I just came back from work and flopped in front of the telly. I'm totally knackered." "Of course. You sit down." 'Pampering her tonight might help assuage the guilt about last night. And last week,' Charlie didn't say. While he was in the kitchen making the tea, he heard the distinctive canned laughter of the sitcom replaced with what sounded like muffled grunting and groaning. 'Maybe they've done a special erotic edition of Birds of a Feather where Sharon, Tracy and the old one get it on in some big lesbo bonkfest? Weird.' But when he re-entered the living-room - coinciding as he did with his image on the TV screen re-entering Terri after he fell off the bed - he dropped the cup of tea. There. On the telly. Were him and Terri. Going at it like a couple of rampant dogs. 'Oh, Jesus.' He was sucking her nipple, for Christ's sake! And making slurping noises... A composed part of his mind mused, 'So that's what I look like during sex.' The rest of it joined his jaw in dropping ground-wards. He was vaguely aware of mumbling, "Oh, shit..." "Charlie," said Michelle, cheerfully. 'And smiling far too much.' "You've dropped my tea." "Uh." "You're going to have to make me another one." 'Far, far too much.' "Ah." "Get over here and sit down you adulterous little wankstain!" His legs wouldn't move. His mouth still hung open. "Oh, for God's sake," Michelle muttered. She got up and yanked towards the sofa, forcing him down onto a cushion. "Sit there and watch yourself gurn." After a while, the composed part of him managed to nudge the rest of him into action and he started to apologise. But before he could get further than, "Michelle, I'm..." she cut him off. "Don't even think about apologising, you repulsive little man. I know this isn't the first time you've gone behind my back; this is just the only one I've got on tape. I'm thinking of selling it, perhaps under the title: 'Drunken Twat Inadvertently Comes all over Someone's Thigh'. You know, birth control is wasted on you; you have a few vodkas and you couldn't hit the Costa del Sol." "How did you..." "Obtain this tape of your beautiful buttocks bouncing to the beat?" she finished. Then she whistled, shrilly. Terri-from-last- night came ambling into the living room. 'Oh, fuck,' he thought. Wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing when he found her in the bar. 'Dear holy shit,' he thought. Carrying his flight case. '...' he thought. She strolled over to him, kissed him on the cheek, winked at Michelle and then laid the case on the floor. Expertly she tapped in the code and opened the case, then started pulling items out and naming them as she did so. "High heeled knee boots: one pair, slightly scuffed, size 10. Bra: one, black, still with handkerchiefs inside, one of which has a Winnie the Pooh motif. Blouse: white, extremely crumpled. Miniskirt: leather, and far too short for any respectable person. Suspenders: black and red, with - good grief - a garter belt. Tights: sheer, one pair. Knickers: black, lacy, stained with semen. Good God, Charles, don't you ever wash this stuff? I could use these to dig up a garden." Her list finished, she waved the offending article of underwear before throwing it at him. In a daze, Charlie caught it. Noticing that the noise from the TV had abated somewhat, he saw himself and Terri enjoying cigarettes. Then the tape cut to static. He was about to say something when the static resolved to a dark black screen, and there were sounds of someone scrabbling at a handle. Then there was a shaft of light and a loud bang, and Charlie realised this was him, earlier, in the attic. And his inner monologue was out of expletives. He saw himself suddenly lit up, and check around the attic. Then he walked over and opened his flight case, drawing out the clothing that was now - with the exception of the knickers - strewn all over the floor, and dressing himself. Cringing, he saw his other self stalk around the attic swaying its hips and pouting at imaginary admirers before the tension apparently became unbearable. He saw himself fumble under the miniskirt, raising it up around his hips. He'd then pulled down the knickers and started to masturbate ferociously. That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part was that Michelle had somehow dubbed a load of comedy sound-effects onto the tape. With every violent stroke of his penis a 'quack' noise emitted from the speaker, and as his strokes got faster and faster, the quacking got higher and higher in pitch, until he was approaching orgasm to the sound of a dozen angry ducklings. When he climaxed, there was a flurry of obscenities in a Donald Duck voice, followed by a sad and lonely 'splat' sound. Then, as his on-screen self collapsed on the floor, happy at a job well done, the tape blurted forth the song, 'Man, I Feel like a Woman', with the word 'feel' replaced with 'fuck'. "Oh, Christ." "Prayer will not help you now, Charlie," Michelle said, stopping the tape. "Neither will apologising or begging. You're for it, boy. You know, I actually loved you. I thought the world of you. I've known about your transvestite tendencies for years now, and it doesn't really bother me. I just wished you'd had the courage to tell me, that's all. But the adultery? Didn't know until a few months ago." Charlie tried to speak, but was cut off again. "Almost every single WEEK, Charlie!" Michelle shouted. There were, he noticed, tears in her eyes now. "Why? Am I not... no." She gritted her teeth. "I promised myself I wouldn't think like that any more," she said, almost to herself. "You hurt me, Charles. You were the first man I trusted in a long, long time and you do this to me!" She waved at the tapes. "You really fucking hurt me, you bastard." Terri was by her side then, stroking her hair and holding her shoulder. She whispered something in Michelle's ear, and she composed herself. "Well," she said, briskly. "You'll hurt me no more." She raised a hand, and Charlie could hear the locks sliding shut on the front and back doors. Terri was closing the curtains in the living room. Every single hair on his body stood up. Terri walked over to a carryall that was in the corner of the room, squatted beside it and pulled out a small box. She opened the lid - Charlie couldn't see what was inside because the box was facing away from him - and pulled out a knife. Not a fancy knife. It didn't have a particularly large blade, or anything else particularly significant apart from its very, very keen edge. Terri was smiling. *** It took him a few seconds to take in what he had just seen, but as soon as he had, Charlie was on his feet and running out of the living room into the kitchen. He fiddled with the lock on the back door, but couldn't undo it. He whipped around to see Terri and Michelle standing in the doorway to the living room, smiling pleasantly at him. "Fuck," he muttered, and grabbed a pan from the side. In one movement he had swung the pan at the window in the door, smashed it and was through, cutting his hands on the smashed glass. He ignored the pain - he could hardly afford to stop and bandage himself up, after all - and ran down the alley at the side of the house, taking the gate at the end in one leap. He ran down the street to where his car was parked - thank God he kept his keys in his trouser pocket and not in his jacket - jumped in and started the engine. Ramming it into first gear, he wheelspan and was away into the streets of Barking. "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," he muttered, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out his mobile. He dialled 999, but when he held the phone to his ear, all he heard was: "The number you have dialled is blocked from this phone, you adulterous monster." "Shit!" He threw the phone onto the passenger seat, and had to swerve to avoid hitting another car when he started paying attention to the road again. He was, he realised, doing sixty miles-an-hour through Barking, but fuck it: what else could he do? "Where do I go, what do I do?" he muttered. 'Just get the fuck away from here,' he told himself. *** Charlie was driving down the motorway, feeling quite relaxed. He was a long way from London now, and surely safe from those - 'Shit, what was that in the back?' Before he could react, Michelle had risen up behind him and drawn her knife. Terri's hands clamped down on his shoulders, and he squirmed and struggled as she licked him slowly on his cheek. And then Michelle was there, her face next to his, fondling his mouth lovingly while she sliced the knife across his neck. Charlie's eyes shot open, and his hands shot up to his neck to protect himself. But he was undamaged. And Terri and Michelle were nowhere to be seen. He took a moment to re-orientate, and then remembered: he'd got out of Barking and gone halfway round the M25, getting off on a random junction and driving down an endless series of minor roads, stopping God-knows-where to get his bearings. And then he'd fallen asleep. He'd driven to the police station in Barking and they were there! Standing outside the copshop, calm as you like, smiling at him. 'Why do they have to smile? If they were angry I could deal with it. Hang on - no I couldn't; she was brandishing a fucking knife!' So he'd taken off. And now he was lost. He'd thrown his mobile out of the window because, instead of the network information, it displayed: WE'RE GOING TO GET YOU *** Charlie looked at his watch. Seven Thirty, Friday morning. He hadn't eaten since Thursday lunchtime, and he was desperately hungry. Surely there should be somewhere open by now. Given the stunt she'd pulled with his mobile phone, he wouldn't put it past Michelle to track withdrawals or credit card payments (where the hell did she learn all that?). Fortunately, he had enough money on him for the moment. He started the car and drove for a while, until signs directed him a small village. Unsurprisingly, given the size of the place, there was very little around, but - thank God - there was a caf? that looked open, if empty. He pulled up outside and wandered in. An old lady behind the counter regarded him oddly. "Is this place open?" he asked. She squinted at him. 'Must be one of those 'we don't like strangers round these parts' places,' he thought. "Yes," the woman said eventually. "Menu's on the blackboard." While he was studying it, the old woman walked into the back and picked up the phone, dialling. When it was answered, she said, "Michelle? Ah, good. It's Anne. Someone I think is your husband's just walked into my caff. What's he doing all the way out here?" The woman's face changed from what appeared to be anger, through pity and onto an evil smile. "Don't worry," she said, "you can come and pick him up any time. Yes, I'm sure the club 'll let you use their van. Yes. Yes. Okay. See you soon." And she put down the receiver. Charlie, of course, missed all this, so when the old woman came back to his table, all he could say was, "Yes, I'd..." before he was hit on the back of the head and lost consciousness. *** The sensation of movement. Bumpiness. You're in a car, he told himself. He'd groaned, and started to sit up, when something hit him again. Two: Suffocate Would anybody tell me if I was getting stupider? - Faith No More, 'RV' Charlie had a terrible headache. 'Why?' He couldn't remember yet. He tried to sit up, and found that he couldn't. 'Oh, yes.' He opened his eyes. He was in a damp place, but a cool one. The light was quite bright. Where the hell was he? A familiar face suddenly loomed over his. He resisted the urge to scream. "Charlie," Michelle said. "Hello." He groaned in response. It was all he could manage; he was still getting his bearings. He was tied down, by his hands, feet, neck and torso. "Where am I?" "In our basement." "We don't have a basement." "Yes, we do. I just never let you see the entrance. Just look that way, if you please." He did, and saw Terri climbing some stairs and opening a hatch. A few carpet tiles fell off the top of it, partially obscuring a view of Charlie and Michelle's kitchen. As he was looking around, he saw some old bookshelves, filled with books, and several tables covered in paper. Somebody had been doing a lot of reading and had made a lot of notes. Terri replaced the hatch to the kitchen and walked over to him. "Hello, darling," she said, and started to remove the bonds. Charlie readied himself to run, at the same time wondering why Terri was releasing him. When she had finished, he jutted one leg out, kicking Terri in the stomach, and rolled off the table onto the floor. He bounced up and started to run for the stairs. At least, that's what he intended to do. Terri looked down at him, and patted his arm. "Disconcerting, isn't it?" she said to his immobile form. Charlie could scarcely believe what was going on. "Why can't... Why?" "Why can't you move?" Michelle said for him. "Oh, but you can." And with that she raised her hand, and he found himself sitting up. She twisted it and he twisted round on the table, dropping his legs over the side. "Your escape yesterday was an oversight on my part, not an act of genius on yours," she explained. "I neglected to disable your bodily motor control. Everything's fine now, of course." Charlie wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything to say. "Oh, close your mouth. I control you now. I own you. Look, you signed the papers yourself; see?" She placed a printed piece of paper on the table beside him, with a pen next to it. His hand moved itself, and signed at the bottom. "Legal and binding," she said, airily. "And if anyone comes round to check, I'm perfectly capable creating a representation of you to confirm that you're perfectly all right." Then she leaned in close to his face, and whispered, "Even though you're not." Then she leaned back and resumed her normal speaking voice. "In case you hadn't worked it out yet: I'm a witch. So is Jane - that's 'Terri', by the way - and so is Anne, that nice country lady at the caf?. "We're not witches in the sense that you might understand, of course. This house was not built on an ancient Indian burial ground, there are no pentagrams on the floor and there are no cats or familiars or anything. Even the hand movements are just for my own satisfaction; I could control you with a thought. "It's not a very glamorous life, being a witch. You go to meetings all day, you study ancient texts until your eyes burn. You drink a surprising amount of tea. But occasionally it's fun. Like getting my revenge on an errant husband: that's fun. "I wish to reiterate some of the things I said yesterday: you hurt me. I cried and cried for months. I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I wondered if you sensed I was a witch and backed away because of it. And then I realised that it wasn't me at all. It was all you. Just you being a worthless, lying piece of shit. You hurt me. And now you're going to pay." Charlie couldn't comprehend all this at once; he could barely think. Hell, he was panicking. He could see static before his eyes and feel his heartbeat race. And then everything went black again as he fainted. *** When Charlie came round, he was almost amused to find himself still in the same sitting position. Almost. He could move his head, at least, and look around. As he'd seen before: books, paper, writing equipment. Michelle and Terri... Michelle and Jane were sat at one of the tables. Jane nudged Michelle and she turned to see him. "Please," he said. "Please let me go. I know saying sorry doesn't help, but I mean it. I'll do anything: I'll stay and make this a better marriage; I'll go and you'll never see or hear from me again; I'll leave the fucking country!" He was crying now, and he couldn't lift his hands to hide his face. "I'll do anything! I'll go around town and tell everyone what a cunt I am; anything!" "No," Michelle said, quietly. "You put me through hell. I'm just returning the favour. Now shut up." "But-" She waved a hand, and Charlie found he no longer could speak. "You humiliated me. Everybody in the street knew, everyone in your office knew. Half of our friends knew. You made me feel worthless, useless, sub-human. So that's exactly what I'm going to do to you. "I'm going to humiliate you. I'm going to hurt you. I'm going to eat you up and spit you out. I'm going to make you feel like the piece of meat you are: to be fucked and thrown away." As she was saying this she was walking towards the table. Then she leaned right into him and spat the next words right into his face. "And at the end of it all you're going to beg for me to kill you." She looked him in the eye for what seemed like hours, and then spat in his mouth and walked away. With one dramatic gesture, she grabbed a knife from the table in the corner and held it high, spreading her arms wide. "I've had this boiling up inside me for months!" she shouted. "And now I'm gonna let it all out!" She screamed, at the top of her voice and at the limits of her throat, until she ran out of breath. "Fuck!" she yelled. "I've been waiting ages to do that!" She snapped her head back round to look at him. "Let's do it again, shall we?" she said nastily. And screamed again. A mind-rending howl of air that was surely too loud and too ragged to be a human voice. Jane joined the scream, standing to link hands with the other witch, her own pitch clashing with Michelle's and mangling the sound into hideous cacophony. 'Oh dear fucking holy Jesus get me out of here get me out here I can't move I can't talk I'm going to DIE they're going to kill me I'm going to die I'm going to die oh Christ oh shit oh fuck oh fucking hell I've got to get out I've got to get out I've got to get out get out get out get out get out I can't take this I can't take this I don't want to die don't want to don't want to don't want to fuck fuck fuck fuck help me oh God please help me' Michelle was arching her back now, forcing more air up from her lungs and raising the pitch even more. She screamed and screamed and screamed at Charlie, at the world and at everything that fuelled her hatred. 'I don't want to die' And then, silence. The two witches collapsed down onto their haunches, spent, breathing heavily. They squatted for a few moments, regaining control. Then Michelle threw down the knife and grabbed Jane by the face, pulling her closer. They locked mouths and stood up together, Jane's hand moving down the other's body and into her trousers. Michelle moved her hands around Jane's back, pulling her close and grinding against her to increase the tension on her clitoris. They moaned and writhed together, locked in motion. Michelle disengaged and started to run her mouth across Jane's face, kissing and caressing with her tongue while Jane's hand in her groin moved roughly and slowly, forcing Michelle further and further up on her toes. Michelle moved one hand down and under Jane's skirt, massaging her through her underwear, still kissing and probing her face. Jane moved her mouth to the neck, biting down hard on the fleshy part by the shoulder. Michelle screamed through clenched teeth into Jane's hair, now on the tip of her toes and crying out in pain and ecstasy. They twisted round, trying to find balance, and Michelle's eye once again rested on Charlie. She gave Jane one last massage before pulling her hand out from her skirt. She kissed down her face and pulled away, looking for a moment directly into Jane's gaze. Then she whirled around, retrieved the knife from the floor and marched towards him. With a look in her eyes Charlie had never seen in anyone before, let alone his wife, she grabbed him and kissed him on the mouth, running the knife down his face, cutting into the skin on his forehead and cheek. The blood ran down his nose and into their mouths, Michelle tasting and swallowing, Charlie trying to keep the bile down in his throat. Then she pulled away and ripped Charlie's shirt from his body. At arm's length she slashed the blade across his stomach, and then another slash at right angles. She ran the knife the length of his right arm, opening him up from shoulder to wrist, and then she stepped back again, satisfaction in her eyes. Then her expression changed, her face contorting into a visage of utter hatred, and she stabbed him in the stomach. She wrenched the knife free, twisting it as she did so. Then she screamed again, dropped the knife and started to punch him in his bloodied face. Once! Twice! Three times! Finally, she stopped, panting, smiling at him with exquisite rage. She spat in his face, again, and let her control of his body go. Charlie collapsed limply onto the table, his head dropping back over the far edge. She reached down and pulled him up by his hair, and brought her face close to his one last time. "That," she spat, "is pain." Then she let go and his head fell back down. She gave him a push and his body fell to the floor, head first, with a sickening, final, crack. Three: Concussion He's a boy, you want a girl, so you tear off his cock - Manic Street Preachers, 'Yes' Starting from the stairs, you can see the limits of the basement: a cold, dark square, dirty water running in the troughs by the walls. The books and the notes are gone; just the empty shelves remain. Pan down, pan across. The bloodstained table in the centre of the room. The body, bruised, bloodied and broken, lit only by the sparse light from the lamp in the corner. It lies on the floor by the table, and it does not move. *** Michelle stretched and yawned, arching her body up in the bed. What day was it? She glanced at the clock, which told her nothing but the time: eleven forty. 'Oh well; too late to go to work, anyway.' Oh, hang on, it was Saturday; it didn't matter. She turned to Charlie, to see if he was awake, but he wasn't there. 'Must be up already,' she decided, sleepily. 'Wait a minute...' Oh, shit. What the hell had she done? She remembered... She remembered...? ...not a lot, actually. Last night was a blur. She definitely remembered strapping her husband to the table in the basement and berating him. Then he'd fainted, and she'd started to cry again. And she'd been nervous, so she'd drunk a hell of a lot, staring at the prone figure of her husband, frozen in a sitting position. And then... then what the hell happened? Jane came rushing in at that point. "Michelle," she said, sounding panicked. "I think you'd better come to the basement. Now." Oh, fuck... *** There he was. Charlie. Dead. 'This wasn't how it was supposed to be,' Michelle whined at herself. There was blood all over his body, all over the table and all over the floor. A gaping wound in his stomach was stained with dried blood. There were clearly visible cuts to his face and one of his arms. Long, deep cuts. Michelle was vaguely aware that no- one's neck was supposed to bend like that. Jane came up behind her, and said quietly, "Is there anything we can do?" Michelle shook her head. "This wasn't supposed to happen," she murmured. "I just wanted to scare him, not kill him." She looked down and saw the knife on the floor. She kicked it, and it slid across the stones for a few metres. She wanted to pick it up and slit her own throat. "Is there anything we can do?" Jane repeated. "I just wanted to scare him..." Michelle said, barely aware of her own voice. "It's... I..." She trailed off. Jane grabbed her by the arm and shook it. "Michelle," she hissed, "concentrate! What can we do?" "I don't know," she admitted. "What is there to do?" "We're witches, for fuck's sake! There must be something!" Michelle turned to look at her. "We're also not very experienced witches," she pointed out. "Well, now is the perfect time to practice," Jane snapped. "We're hardly going to make the situation any worse, are we? I mean, he's not going to get any more dead, is he?" "Don't say that..." "It's true! Charlie is dead. We killed him. We may not have meant to, but we did, so now he's our responsibility. Not to mention the fact that the Council will have our heads if this gets out." Michelle shivered. "No," she muttered, "not our heads." "So let's at least try something. Anything! Get the books." "I..." "Fine. I'll get the books, you can stand there gibbering. Just remember: we set out to make this guy pay, and we did. Remember, he's got an illegitimate child he doesn't support; he beat that girl up when he was drunk; and his secret hobby involves pretending to be a prostitute. He's a very twisted person." "He's a twisted person? I killed someone when I was drunk!" "And however much that is a crime, he deserved it. Now either we make him live again, for our sake, or we face the consequences. So help me find the solution!" "But..." "Fine. Do whatever you want: sit there and blubber if it makes you feel any better, I don't give a fuck. Just keep out of my way while I read." And with that she stormed back up the stairs. Michelle walked over to Charles' body and squatted by it. She was instantly revolted by the smell of dried blood and the sight of his torn face. She got up and staggered over into the corner, where she threw up. *** They sat together, holding hands, on two wooden chairs, either side of Charlie's body. They had their eyes closed, and a fine shimmer of light covered them like a second skin. They were searching. *** It was like nothing she'd ever seen before. Michelle stopped for a minute to look around, while Jane raced on ahead. It was incredible. It was so... blank. There were buildings, but they were stark, washed out structures, with no light and no sign of life. Many of them were partly demolished, with sections of their superstructure breaking the outer surface. 'Like broken bones through dead skin,' Michelle's mind supplied. The roads that ran between them were cracked and rough; every so often, a car would tear down one at breakneck speed, soundlessly. There was little vegetation, and what there was hung limply, as if the plants themselves were hopeless. Jane noticed her hesitation and returned to her. "It's so empty," Michelle said. Her voice sounded muffled. Jane looked as if she was about to snap at her friend, but then she softened. "I know. But, seriously, what else did you expect purgatory to look like?" "Oh, I don't know. Fire, brimstone. Anything but a dead city." "The books said that purgatory is representative. If reflects the people that experience it, and the times they live in." "Yes, but-" "No buts. We've got to find him before he's gone forever." She tugged at Michelle's arm. "Come on." They walked on through the lifeless streets. They had no idea where they were, but a faint tugging feeling on their minds told them where Charlie was, and that he was constantly on the move. Slowly, and obviously moving with great difficulty, but mobile nonetheless. The book had said that this was a good sign: he hadn't accepted death yet. Around a corner, Jane almost fell over a small girl, huddled against a wall. She was rewarded with a look that shocked her more than anything she'd ever experienced: a level, sane, measured stare from a girl that couldn't be more than seven or eight years old. 'If she was still alive,' she reminded herself. "Excuse me," she said, crouching down beside the child. "Can you help us?" "No." Unlike Jane and Michelle's voices, the girl's was clear and loud. 'Because she belongs here.' "We're looking for a man who came here recently." "No." "C'mon, Jane," Michelle said. "She doesn't want to talk to us. Or she can't." Jane sighed, and rose. "So what do we do?" "We know which direction he's in, so we just keep going until we find him." Jane sighed again. *** The only thing Charlie was aware of was a terrible, annihilating pain that came from all corners of his body. 'Why? What's happening?' He didn't belong here. He was being taken somewhere, somewhere that didn't fit, that wasn't right. He would have screamed but he had no voice. He would have struggled but he had nothing to struggle with. He could do nothing but feel, and he could feel nothing but pain. *** "Do you think it worked?" Jane asked. "How should I know?" Jane considered for a second. "Listen," she said, "are we going to carry on and do everything we planned? Because if we are we mustn't show that we saved him, or that we were worried about him. It undermines everything. So we carry on exactly as before, or we let him go." "And let him go to the police?" "With what? He has no marks on his body, no evidence and he's only missed one day of work. No jury in the land could - or would - convict us of anything. And we've got tapes of him dressed as a prostitute in the attic. If we let him go he's not going to do anything. Except possibly get the hell out of London for good." "But what about-" "And," Jane interrupted, "he will have no memory of having died. The occasional nightmare about where he was, perhaps, but no conscious recall." "Well, what do you think?" "I say we keep going. Ay, he needs to be taught a lesson. Bee, you still need your revenge, and-" "I killed him, Jane. Isn't that revenge enough?" "Well, he's hardly dead now, is he? And not a scratch on him. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Bee, you still need revenge. Cee, we need the practise, and he's a perfect test subject. And dee, we both know that he's got potential. Once we've trained all of the negative qualities out of him. Oh, and ee, it's damned good fun and you know it." "Well, all right. When he comes to we treat him the same. But I want to think this through properly when we've got time." "Fair enough. Oh! Sssh: he's coming round." *** Charlie was more than a little disorientated. The last thing he remembered was being... well, being stabbed to death by a crazed, drunken woman he used to think of as his wife. But when he looked down at himself, when he ran his hands across his body, he realised he was completely unbroken. Perfect skin everywhere. There was no chance in hell that last night had been a dream, though. He could never recall any dream inflicting so much pain. And there was a blank in his mind: his coming to a few minutes ago and his 'dying' were separated by a massive chasm in his memory. Surely that wasn't right. "Good afternoon, Charles," Jane said. "Uh, hi," he said. He knew that Jane had been involved in whatever happened last night, and her presence unsettled him. "How are you feeling?" Michelle asked him. Charlie didn't see Jane elbowing her. "Um, fine, I suppose." "That can be changed," Jane said. Charlie was alarmed by that. "What do you mean?" he snapped. Jane walked over to where he was sitting on the floor. "You do remember last night, don't you?" Charlie's eyes widened. "I see that you do," Jane continued. "Realise, however, that that was just a taste of things to come. You are to be punished for what you've done." She said those last words with such vehemence that Charlie just couldn't respond. "Uh, Jane?" Michelle whispered. "Shut up, Michelle. Now, Charles: pay attention. I would like you to cast your mind back over your sex life of the past few years. I know and you know - and she knows - that you have betrayed your loving wife dozens of times over that period, but I want you to recall certain incidents in particular. Do you remember a girl named Sarah Jacobsen?" "Uh-" "And I do mean 'girl', since she was only seventeen when you raped her." "I never-" "You got her drunk and then tried to have sex with her in a hotel. When she resisted, you hit her. You claimed to be sorry and made her some coffee, supposedly prior to her leaving for home. Unfortunately for her, you made the coffee extra strong so that she wouldn't taste the large amount of vodka you slipped into it. You fucked her later on that night, on the floor of the hotel." "I didn't-" "Not only was she fucked by a drunken, depraved individual against her will, but you took her virginity. Her cherry was popped in a cheap hotel in central London, and she had the carpet burns on her back to prove it." "But-" "Charlie, you cunt, you raped a seventeen year-old virgin. For that you will pay. Now," she continued briskly, "do you remember a young lady by the name of Anthea Woodroft? She has a baby by you: a toddler named Annalise Elizabeth. Lord only knows why she kept the baby; if I had your child I'd probably sacrifice it to Satan. You had unprotected sex with Anthea in the back of your car when you were in Birmingham. The girl's got no money, Charles, and no boyfriend. She can't get a job because she's raising your child, and she can't afford a babysitter. "So, that's a tally of two lives ruined so far. What else did you do? Let's see... You've raised your hand to a few more women than just poor Sarah... You've been indirectly responsible for three abortions... And, of course, you've routinely cheated on our Michelle here. You're a worthless human being, Charlie, and I'm loathe even to refer to you as a member of the same race as me. There's nothing you can say in your defence, so," - and here Charlie started to say something, so Jane slapped him - "don't fucking bother. Stay down here and think about what you've done. Come on, Michelle." *** "Right," Jane said, sounding satisfied as she relaxed on the sofa with a cup of tea, "what shall we do to him next?" *** The slam of the door into the basement woke Charlie from his dream. When he sat up and looked, he saw Jane had just finished descending the stairs. She was carrying his flight case. Even more disturbingly, Michelle was not with her; Charlie had already gathered that Jane on her own was far more hazardous to his health, even though had been Michelle who'd done all the nasty stuff thus far. Jane, all businesslike, marched over to the table and placed the flight case onto it. She opened it and started to withdraw what Charlie had always thought of as his 'getaway gear'. Now, to Charlie's mind, it all seemed more like some bizarre set of torture implements. Jane finished laying the clothing on the table and put the flight case away in a corner of the room. "Put these on," she said to him. Charlie's crossdressing instincts were instantly offended. "But I've got two day's stubble," he protested. "Really? Nevertheless." Charlie got up. He removed his clothes and walked over to the table, cupping his genitals with one hand. Jane watched in silence as he gingerly picked up the pants on the table and put them on. Oh, shit. That old, familiar feeling of lycra knickers first running up his hairy legs and then trapping his penis was turning him on. This wasn't the situation for that. He tried to suppress his growing erection by tucking it between his legs and pulling the knickers tight. Hurriedly, he pulled the tights up over his legs and used them to further hold back his penis. Almost without thinking, he went through the rest of his ritual: bra on, adjust handkerchiefs to create the impression of slightly lumpy breasts; blouse over the top of it; pull up the skirt. And then his favourite part: his black, leather knee boots. He couldn't help a wistful smile as he pulled them up his legs; it had taken him ages to get them, and- His musings were interrupted by a sharp cough from Jane. He looked up and saw that she had placed a full-length mirror on the wall. He could see his reflection. 'I look fucking stupid,' he thought. His hair was messed up; he had - as he had observed earlier - too much hair on his face. His paunch made the blouse stick out further at his belly than it did at his fake breasts. Still unaccustomed to standing in heels - particularly the five inch ones on his boots - he was perceptibly leaning forward, giving the impression that he was constantly about to fall over. "Pathetic," Jane murmured. "So this is how you get yourself off, is it? Try to make some cheap imitation of your idea of the female form, and then fuck it? Oh, come on, I don't need to imagine anything," she said at the shake of his head. "I've seen the video. You, strutting around in your cheap hooker-gear, jacking off mindlessly to whatever fantasies go through your head. What do you imagine, Charlie? That some big, strong man is fucking you? Beating the shit out of you as he grinds away at your crotch?" Charlie could only shake his head. "Well, if that isn't what you imagine, then why do you inflict that on real women, eh? Date-rape is such a tame word, you know." She walked right up to him, and started to run her hands across his cheeks. In a tone of voice that would have been quite seductive if Charlie wasn't getting the shits again, she said, "I've seen those websites you go to. You know the ones: all the stories about schoolboys getting spells to turn themselves into cheerleaders, and wimpy boys being turned into what are apparently termed 'sissy sex-slaves'. Is that what you wank about? Some hard, cruel woman forcing you to lick her out? "It's power, that's all it is. You like the idea of a loss of control because you can't let go in real life. You can't let another woman, let alone your wife, decide for a change. Ever thought about making some elements of your fantasy world reality? 'No, Michelle, what do you want to do tonight?' Of course you didn't, because it's power on your terms that you want." One of the hands that had been encircling his cheeks suddenly grabbed his neck and pulled his eyes towards hers. She smirked, malevolently. "Wanna play dress-up?" Intermission I deserve a reward, 'cause I'm the best fuck that you ever had - Faith No More, 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies' 'What the fuck am I doing?' Charlie thought. 'Why do I have to do this?' His crossdressing habit had always been private; a strictly guarded secret to which - he thought - nobody but him was privy. He had always acknowledged that he looked a bit daft in all his gear but he'd never really cared about that. If he was totally honest with himself, he dressed because it made him excited. To begin with, it was an occasional vice: maybe once or twice a year. Then he got hold of his kit and had gone a bit crazy for a while, dressing every day when he came home from work. But he found that if he did it too often it reduced the appeal, so he cut back on his little escapes and started sleeping around to relieve the tension. That was how he rationalised it, anyway. He'd always known that he was a little different; that there was something 'wrong' with him that couldn't be corrected. Some of those old feelings were intensifying now, though, while others were fading. He sometimes caught himself wondering if it wasn't time to take things... to the next step. It was all moot now, of course; he'd have to weather whatever storms Jane and Michelle were going to throw at him before he could start to plan the rest of his life. Jane was making him walk around the basement in his fuck-me boots, but he wasn't really concentrating. Looking at her, she was quite a small woman; he could knock her down and be out of here in a matter of moments... Excepting the fact that last night they'd managed to completely paralyse him as easily as they breathed. 'No,' he decided. 'Just wait until you can get away completely unnoticed, and then run as fast as you can.' *** "How can we do this to him?" Michelle said to no-one as she furiously vacuumed the bedroom. "He may be a bastard, but he's still my husband." Michelle's mind was waging war on itself. One camp wanted to see Charlie hurt, badly and repeatedly, for all the things he'd done. It wanted him to be totally humiliated, to suffer terrible pain, to die a thousand deaths. The other camp was worried about taking things too far. What if they shattered his mind? What if he simply snapped? Would they be left with a salvageable human being at the end of it? 'Part of all punishment should be rehabilitation, after all,' she thought. Which is why they were doing it themselves and not handing him over the police: with Britain's prison system he'd come out of jail a bigger criminal than when he went in. At least they had a chance to turn him into a respectable, caring person. And Jane's increasing fervour (and worrying inventiveness) jeopardised that aim. Dammit, she still loved him! *** Jane was loving this. The little bastard looked so funny as he stumbled around the room, teetering on his heels like a little girl in her first court shoes. 'And that's nothing compared to what's coming next,' she said to herself, unable to keep her grin from widening at the thought. Jane had been reading. She was, however, still mildly concerned about the whole thing. She was determined to have her fun, but Michelle seemed less sure of herself. And that old woman also knew that they had him, but as long as she didn't suspect anything they'd be safe; if there was one thing Jane really didn't want, it was a confrontation with Anne. She didn't look like much, but the kindly old lady was a much more experienced and powerful witch than either Jane or Michelle. Best to keep things low-profile for all concerned. 'Which means keeping a careful eye on Michelle's dirty conscience.' `Four: Idiot box Even smiling makes my face ache - Frank N Furter, 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' He looked at the pieces of paper that Jane had shoved in front of him. "So?" he said, indignantly, before remembering his position and realising he'd better be a damn sight more cooperative. "What are these for?" Jane sighed, and snatched the papers back from him. "For god's sake, Charlie-boy, don't you recognise your own furtive surfing? These are printouts from those transvestite-fantasy-story archives you visit. They're quite ridiculous, actually. A surprisingly large number of otherwise perfectly sensible women decide to turn their hetero husbands into women - usually in revenge for some terrible act - when they'd probably serve their revenge better simply by killing their husbands and dumping the bodies into the sea." "So why am I like this?" Charlie couldn't stop himself asking. "Because I'm not a perfectly sensible woman. I'm a witch, and I'm naturally inquisitive, to boot. But there are a lot of interesting ideas in here; not exactly 'high concept', but amusing, none the less. I have to confess that a few of them managed to turn me on, but that's probably because I've naturally got a bit of dominatrix in me. "Listen to this," she continued. "I mean, this is genius stuff! There's this man here who's been stealing his wife's tights and wearing them to work, so to teach him a lesson, she - get this; this is fucking brilliant - turns him into a pair of tights and wears him to work!" She guffawed, falsely. "Classic! Of course, there's no mention of what happens when the tights start to run, or whether that bloke from Faithless tears them off with his teeth, but then I doubt that's a point of interest for your average wanking surfer. "And another one: it seems Jack here is a bit of a closet transvestite with a passion for nurse's uniforms. So he sneaks into a hospital and raids the lockers, only to be caught by a bunch of people on the night shift. So then they make him dress as a nurse, get down on his knees and give them all blowjobs. I must admit, this stuff is fantastic." She flipped through some more of the papers. "And then we have the daddy of them all: something called 'Spells R Us'. All these kids go to a wizard in a magic teleporting shop, mostly with innocent requests, and get turned into cheerleaders with 42DDD breasts! Is that what you lot really fantasise about: being suddenly gifted with enormous bosoms, forced to do gross things to multiple people, and then being turned into comfortable but inconvenient items of hosiery?" She turned to Charlie, expecting a response, but all he could manage was a shrug. "I wonder what it would be like to try some of these ideas out," she said. "You know, in real life, sort of thing. See how these fantasy situations appeal to your average Joe Transvestite. Would you find that fun?" Charlie blinked. "Uh, no, I wouldn't." He grimaced up at her from where he was sitting - at her insistence - on the floor. "But then, I suppose that's the point, isn't it?" Jane suddenly grinned broadly, and clapped her hands together. "Exactly! You're beginning to get the idea. I don't care how much all of this hurts you, or humiliates you. I don't really even care if I manage to kill you, because this has elevated beyond simple punishment, now. This is research, Charlie-boy, and you are my rat. "Now, I must warn you," she finished. "I've been studying." *** "Jane, what's been going on down here?" Jane turned. "Oh, hi. Nothing much, yet. I was just getting started." Michelle, descending the stairs, looked around for Charlie, and couldn't see him anywhere. There was a pile of clothes on the floor - she vaguely recognised them as the woman's clothes they'd found in his flight case - but no Charlie in them. With a sinking feeling, she saw the Perspex box on the table. As she approached it, she couldn't help but notice the rodent trapped within. "Just a little wordplay," Jane said. "Aren't you adorable?" she said to the rat, tapping her fingers against the Perspex. Michelle walked up to Jane and put her chin on the other witch's shoulder. "Aren't you taking all this a little too far?" she whispered. "What do you mean?" Jane whispered back, all innocent. "Turning him into a rat, for fuck's sake! That's the sort of thing that could scar him for life!" "What, you mean like rape could? Listen, Michelle, I'm giving him no more than he deserves, and if you don't want to join in, then don't. Go back upstairs, listen to music, read a book, turn the washing-up into a chorale of dancing field mice; I don't give a fuck. Just leave me - and the rat here - alone." "No, I-" "Michelle, go away! We'll discuss this later." *** 'I don't believe it,' Michelle thought. 'I'm actually afraid of her. Shit. When did she get so powerful?' When she'd been down in the basement, she'd felt the power radiating from her old friend. And now, she needed to know how she got so strong, so quickly. 'What was that phrase?' she wondered. 'Ah yes: power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.' So Michelle was getting down all the books from the hidden shelf in the bedroom, looking for soothsaying spells, binding spells; anything that could give her an insight into Jane's new strength, or that could stop her from doing anything too stupid. But first, she had a more pressing spell to cast. *** Thank god for that! Charlie was human again. Naked, and lying in the shattered remains of a plastic box, but human nonetheless. Right now, however, Charlie was worried. He'd never suspected Jane could do things like that. Okay, so they'd managed to paralyse him, and to lock down all the doors in the house, but up until recently that's all he'd really seen them do. With a wave of her hand, Jane had turned him into a rat! And now she was sat in the corner of the room, reading all the printouts she had. Looking for ideas, she'd said. 'Oh, fuck.' Abruptly she rose and strode over to him. "I think it's time," she said, "for a little fun." Charlie flinched when she waved her hand, but nothing - apparently - had happened to him. The room had shifted around them: become much smaller, wallpapered, with several full-length mirrors installed. Plush furniture had appeared, sitting on a nice carpet. The whole effect would have been quite pleasing if Charlie had been in any state to properly appreciate it. As it was, his eyes were locked on Jane, as he tried to guess what she would do to him next. She flourished a piece of paper. "Case study number one," she said. "Joshua's little sister is going to her high school prom - yes, another Yank story and another bloody prom, I know - and she's been worrying about what she's going to wear. Now, Josh's sis, a lovely girl named Katie, is very shy and not very popular, and she's petrified of looking silly at the ball. So Josh goes to the local mall - how do you pronounce that? Is it 'mall' or 'maul'? Personally, I prefer the latter 'cause it sounds more painful and horrific. "Anyway, Josh goes to the mall to look for a beautiful ball gown for his baby sister, but after many hours of searching he can find nothing suitable for his beloved sister. On the verge of giving up, he visits a small, innocuous-looking store. The man behind the counter seems already to know his problem and promises he can sort something out. The next week, Katie wears the most beautiful gown in the world to the prom, and all the girls want to be her friend. And - yep, you guessed it - the gown is Joshua. "It's got an almost 'Greek Myth' feel about it, hasn't it? The gown is so beautiful because it's made of the man with the most beautiful soul on Earth. Of course, it takes the mythic edge off it when you imagine a thousand lonely trannies banging away at their computer screen. But still, I think it's a lovely story. "Wanna try it?" she asked. Charlie's answer in the negative was cut off as he found himself unable to speak again. "I find your negative attitude and constant blubbering off- putting. But you won't be needing your voice for the time being." A wave of her hand produced a mail-order shopping catalogue, which materialised on the table. "Well, go on then, Charlie-boy. Open the catalogue. Peruse the items. Live the transvestite's dream. Choose what you want to be." Five: The dogs and the horses I'm not well; I know that now. Can you make me better? He couldn't. He couldn't choose. Hell, Charlie found he couldn't even move; not paralysed, just terrified. "Go, on Charlie. Open the catalogue. Choose a gift for yourself." She picked up the catalogue and handed it to him. Charlie took it, looked at her and pointedly dropped it. 'Fuck you, you bitch,' he thought. 'You're not going to break me.' Jane seemed unaffected by his defiance. She merely retrieved the catalogue and opened it. "Let's see, let's see..." she muttered. "What sort of clothing will Charlie be?" Charlie continued to stare up at her. He had to brazen this out; find an inner resolve. He was frightened almost to the point of seizure, but he refused to show it. He strengthened himself, and looked right at her. "Be stubborn, then," Jane said. "It won't do you any good. Ah, here we are... perfect. Let the transformation commence!" Charlie stiffened, feeling a shimmer of energy pass through his body. There were no external changes yet, but his body felt like it was on fire; his organs, bones and tissue were writhing inside his skin. He fought the urge to pass out. Despite the pain, he had to remain conscious. He saw a full-length mirror appear in front of him. That bitch wanted him to see every change he would go through! "I know how you transvestites like tight things," he heard her say. "How'd you feel about being one? Oh! I know: an ensemble piece!" The first changes he could see were to his skin; his image rippled and swam in front of him, and then settled down. His pink skin was deepening in hue everywhere: his lower legs and feet became a deep black, which then rippled once more, altering to a shiny material. His thighs and hips turned to dark purple, and smoothed out into what looked like satin, or Lycra. From his stomach to his hair, his skin deepened to matt black; his fingers turned to silver. Then his shape started to change. He watched, and felt, as his heels extended downwards several inches, pushing his ankles upwards. His thighs fused together and his arms shortened, black hands poking almost amusingly out of his shoulders. His head sank down into his neck, which sank further into his chest. He watched in horror as his features disappeared ('How the hell can I still see?'); the contours and colours of his face fading into his chest. He went limp. Jane walked over to him and picked him up by his shoulders - he was much lighter now - so that he could continue to watch himself in the mirror. Strangely, there was no pain now. He supposed he didn't have any nerve endings left. Then came the most horrible part. Watching his final changes, if Charlie could have thrown up he would have done. His feet and calves hardened into a leather material, and completed forming into a boot shape. Then they dropped off. He saw what had been his lower legs sickeningly disconnect themselves from his flattened knees, inch by inch, until they completely separated. They dropped to the floor; Charlie was surprised to realise that he could still feel their presence: the feel of the carpet against his feet - boots - was as real as any touch sense. His thighs and hips hollowed out, becoming a sort of skirt, he supposed. By the time his hips had detached from his stomach and his skirt had fallen to the floor, his upper body was changing. First, his silver fingers, one by one, fell away from his stunted hands. On the floor he could feel them coalesce: his right-hand fingers into a bracelet and his left-hand into a necklace. His upper body - now the only part of him still held up to the mirror - hollowed out and shrank down. His shoulders disappeared into his chest, which billowed out slightly. After a few more seconds, Jane let the halter-neck fall to the floor. "Beautiful," she said. "Truly beautiful." *** "Michelle," Jane called. "I'm going out - don't wait up for me." *** Charlie, whole again, lay on the floor panting. 'Jesus.' "Did you enjoy that, little Charlie?" asked Jane's ankle. Charlie was just about able to raise his head to glare at her. He had a huge gash on one of his legs, where she had 'accidentally' ripped the skirt on a bush. It was bleeding, horrifically. "No I did not," he muttered at her, still unable to summon the breath to talk at any more than a wheeze. He moved a finger down to probe the cut, and winced when it made contact with the broken flesh. He was vaguely aware of footsteps. "Oh my God!" That was Michelle. "What did you do to him?" Jane turned to glare at her. "Nothing we didn't agree on." "Jane, can I talk to you a second?" "Just let me..." Before Jane could finish, Michelle had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her over to the side of the room. They started to talk, in frenzied whispers. This was weird. First Michelle had been so upset, wanting to hurt him. But now? It was almost as if she was concerned. Did he have an ally against Jane? And what the fuck was up with Jane, anyway? He'd fucked her once, an event that she had planned. And now she was punishing him for - what? It was obvious, even to Charlie - who wasn't exactly a master of human emotion - that Jane was seriously fucked up about something. He was suddenly aware of a commotion; painfully he turned to look, and saw Jane staggering backwards, holding her cheek. Michelle must have punched her. Then he saw Michelle run up the stairs into the kitchen. Jane looked over at him. "Don't move," she said. "I'll be right back." Six: The room at the top is where the demons live Some wise guy built you pretty, so you'd get away with it - Sleeper, 'Statuesque' "Just what the almighty fuck is up with you, Michelle?" Jane shouted as she followed the other witch into the living room. "The man's a fucking maggot. He deserves to be chopped in half and buried in his own shit! You can't still be having second thoughts?" "He doesn't deserve all this shit, Jane!" Michelle yelled back. "So yeah, okay, he cheated on me. Lots of men cheat on their wives; it means they're fucking cunts, but it doesn't give anyone the right to torture them!" "Yeah, well, I've always thought there was something fucked up about that. You two had a commitment to each other, and he betrayed that commitment." "So fucking what? He's a prick, yes. He's a liar, hell yes. But we've already killed him once! Even if he did deserve to be tortured, don't you think we've gone far enough already?" "No, I don't. You said a few days ago that you wanted to hurt him, to humiliate him, to put him through hell. Well, we only sent the fucker to purgatory and I'll be fucked if I'm stopping before I've sent him all the way down!" "But-" "Shut up, Michelle! Your whining is really beginning to get on my nerves. For the love of God, we're witches! We can do whatever we want. We've got power over that man; we can make him do anything, just on a whim. And in six years as a witch I've never had the chance