Crescent City 3 - The Slaver free porn video

Crescent City 3 The Slaver By The Professor "More wine, Cassie?" I nervously swallowed the bite of pecan-encrusted fish I had been slowly working on and managed to reply, "No thanks... Oliver." As a young man I had considered myself a competent wine drinker, able to sip champagne with hors d'oeuvres, ample quantities of fine wines with my meal, and still have the ability to finish off my meal with a glass of 20 year-old tawny port. But I wasn't a young man anymore; I was a young woman - a woman who looked so young that the waiter at Commander's Palace had actually had the audacity to check my ID. And as a young woman, I was already beginning to feel the effects of the wine, although it was only my second glass. Of course it didn't help that I was as nervous as the proverbial cat in a room filled with rocking chairs. There I was, sitting across the table from Brett's father, the esteemed Doctor Oliver Carson. Oliver and his wife, Estelle, had been visiting New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and had stayed for a few days to be with their son and, to quote Oliver, "Meet this fine young lady, who seems to have stolen our son's heart." To be fair Oliver and Estelle had done everything in their power to put me at ease. They were a wonderful couple. They had treated me as a daughter for the last three days, and they seemed genuinely pleased that Brett and I were together. I wondered what they would have said if they had known that just a little over a year ago, I hadn't been the sweet young African-American girl who graced their table. Instead I had been a white man, scion of an old Louisiana family, that had proudly supported the Confederacy (until it was in their best interests to cooperate with the Union) and, in the finest tradition of wealthy families throughout the South, had owned scores of black slaves. But of course they didn't know. Not even Brett knew. As far as they all knew, I, like their family, had grown up as an African American with middle-class roots. They knew I had a mother and two siblings - a brother and a sister - and that my mother was a professor at the University of Louisiana, and that she was currently dating a New Orleans physician. Of course what had remained unsaid was that my mother and siblings were not my original family, and that my new mother was dating Papa Bob. True, he was a physician, but he was also one of the foremost practicing Voodooines in the area. I had certainly done everything in my power to appear as the girl they expected, though. I had suffered through a lengthy session at the beauty shop right after classes, during which I had allowed them to do their damnedest to make me into the lovely young woman they thought me to be. Not that I was so bad to start with, but they had done such wonders with making me look my best that I wondered if they didn't use just a little bit of magic to enhance me. In my little black dress and three-inch heels I had turned the heads of nearly every man in the dining room, and I could feel Brett's pride as he sat next to me. Although I had dressed up for Brett before, this time it was different. I had grown accustomed to being a girl for Brett, and he accepted me for who I was (or at least who he thought I was). In the months we had been a couple, I had allowed my feminine side to dominate me, and I knew that I was absolutely in love with him. An eventual marriage wasn't out of the question. Unless... I hadn't worked up the courage to tell Brett who I had been - that I had been transformed against my will, to destroy the budding political career of my ambitious father. The plot had failed, though, and my father - or perhaps I should say my former father - now sat in the Governor's office in Baton Rouge, while I had been forced into a very different life. I didn't regret my new life - in fact, I had come to enjoy it. But Brett was a big part of that new life, and I didn't want anything to happen to spoil that. Yet there I was, sitting across the table from the handsome older man, who just happened to be one of the foremost authorities in the country regarding magical sex changes. I felt as if he would see me for the man I used to be and I would be toast any moment now. Call me paranoid, but there it was. "Brett tells me you've lived your entire life here in Louisiana," Estelle said suddenly, and I realized I had been woolgathering again. "Uh... yes," I managed. At least that was the truth. The questions she had asked me about my supposed girlhood had kept me on edge all evening, since of course I had never had a girlhood. "All of that time here in New Orleans?" Except for my time at Harvard, I had lived my entire life in the Crescent City, but my new family had not, so I responded vaguely, "Mom Teaches at Louisiana University in Lafayette, Louisiana, a little west of here." That wasn't a lie, was it? "But you would never guess that," Brett chuckled. "She knows the New Orleans area like a native. I still get lost the way the streets circle around here, but she always knows how to get around." I hoped they didn't notice my grimace. I tried to recover with, "I just have a good sense of direction." Estelle put her hand on mine and added, "And unlike our men, I'm sure you aren't above stopping and asking for directions." She chuckled then, and I smiled back at her. "If you're that familiar with the area, you might be just the person to talk to about Voodoo," Oliver suggested. Estelle laughed, "Good lord, Ollie, just because she's from New Orleans doesn't mean she knows anything about that nonsense." "It isn't really nonsense," Ollie countered. "Experts in the field of magic have suspected practitioners of Voodoo might very well have naturally tapped into the hidden magical forces that Webster and Kline eventually released. If any of the old Voodoo priests were still around today, they might be some of the most powerful magical practitioners on the planet, since they seemed to have some talents even then." "But they are still around," I blurted out without thinking. The surprised looks on everyone's faces - even Brett's - warned me I shouldn't have butted in. Mama Juno, the infamous Voodoo priestess, had been responsible for my transformation. And whether by magic or just some well-placed bribes, she had managed to avoid prosecution for that and a number of other crimes. That was all pretty powerful magic when you got right down to it. Of course they didn't know that, but their looks told me they suspected I just might believe in the mysterious old faith myself. Many persons of our color still did - secretly, of course. I have to explain my outburst. "What I mean," I backpedaled, "is that it's common knowledge around here that some folks still believe. There are still shops on South Rampart Street that sell magic powders and Voodoo candles, just as they did a century ago. Graves of some of the famous past practitioners get decorated with Voodoo symbols, and every now and then, some hapless resident ends up with a dead chicken wearing doll clothes on his front doorstep." "Ugh!" Estelle interjected, but Oliver just laughed. "Maybe I should open up a branch of my clinic down here. No telling what some Voodoo priestess might figure out to do with some poor guys." Everybody chuckled at that, and the conversation stayed light through the rest of the main course. I was contemplating dessert, debating about what those empty but so delicious calories might do to me when I heard a buzzing noise. Oliver looked a little embarrassed and reached in his suit coat pocket, extracting his cell phone. "Excuse me," he murmured, turning his head to one side. The rest of us got very quiet. When a doctor is disturbed while on vacation, the news can never be good. After a few quiet questions he pulled out a notebook and jotted something down. Then he closed the call with, "Yes, I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can." With a sigh he placed the phone back in his pocket, a look of disappointment on his face. "Don't tell me you have to go back to Nashville," Estelle guessed, obviously disappointed to have their vacation cut short.. Oh, no!" Oliver assured her. "This is a local situation, right here in town. There seems to be a young... well, lady now, at the LSU Medical Center. The FBM has asked me to consult with them on the case. Brett, if you would take the ladies home and I'll catch a cab?" It didn't take a detective to figure out what was going on. Oliver's experience with victims of involuntary magical sex change, and the way he stumbled on the "lady" reference, spelled yet another case of the sort I was all too familiar with due to personal experience. Add to it the fact that nearly all victims of magical spells were taken to the LSU Med Center and the problem was obvious. Since I had a very personal interest in such cases, I wanted to go, too. I know, I shouldn't have gotten involved, but my heart went out to the poor souls who had their genders stolen from them, and I wanted to help. I put my hand on Oliver's sleeve as he was preparing to rise. "Maybe I should go, too," I suggested. "As Brett says, I know my way around town pretty well, and the LSU Med Center can be a pretty easy place to get lost in. If Brett doesn't mind, I can drive you there while he takes Estelle back to your hotel in a cab." "That's very generous of you," Oliver acknowledged, "but I might be there for some time. I wouldn't want to keep you out." "Don't worry, Dad," Brett interrupted while handing me the keys to his Z-3. "Cassie has had some experience with this sort of thing." I must have looked a little shocked for a moment before I realized what he meant. "Oh yes!" Oliver replied brightly. "Ms. Lagrange's case. Yes, perhaps I can use your assistance... if you don't mind?" "Not at all." I smiled at him as I collected the car keys. "Let's go." My own phone went off right after we scooted out of the parking lot on our way downtown. Fortunately the top was up (I didn't want my hair messed up after an afternoon getting it done), so I was able to hear my sister on the other end. "Cassie?" "Yeah, Helen." "Where are you right now?" I gave her a quick rundown of what was going on and where we now were. To my surprise she laughed. "What's so funny?" "I was just calling to ask you if you could meet us at the Med Center. The FBM brought Brian and me in to consult on that same case." "No kidding?" "See you in a few," she said brightly. "A problem?" Oliver asked. "No, just my sister," I told him. "She's working on your case, too, it seems." "Oh?" "Yeah. She and her husband are private investigators. They've worked on cases like this before." Including, in Helen's case, I added silently, my own sex change. I could sense Oliver had other questions to ask me, but fortunately the shape of the LSU Med Center was just ahead. I slowed down and wheeled the car into the doctor's parking lot, figuring after all Oliver was a doctor. If they ticketed me, I'd sort it out later. I wondered as I led him through the sterile hallways why the FBM was letting out all the stops. Both Oliver and Helen were going to be temporarily on the FBM payroll - an odd situation for the semi- secretive agency which almost always kept its investigations private and internal. From past experience, it usually meant the FBM had something it needed handled quickly - something it couldn't handle by itself. That sounded ominous. Since my former father had been the local director of the agency until a year ago, I was very aware of the reasons for that. Ever since magic had exploded (almost literally) on the American scene a few years ago, the government had sought to keep a lid on the scope of the problem of magic. Fortunately, for them, most magic was minor and rather benign. Magical abilities were nonexistent in most people, and still others never discovered their latent talents, meager as they might be. Even most of those who did discover their own magic talents found them to be virtually useless. My own power as a Pusher meant I could move things with my mind, but not accurately or strongly enough to be of much use. Other than being able to move things into reach from high shelves, it hadn't exactly made me popular at parties. But others ended up with considerable magic power, and some had even managed to "package" their abilities, through spells and potions which could be handled by even those with no magical abilities. In other words, a lot more people were at risk from magic users than was generally perceived. Take sex change spells, for example. No one knew who had developed the first ones. For years everyone thought changing a person into one of the opposite sex was too complex to pull off. It would take considerable knowledge of biology, anatomy, and three or four other basic scientific disciplines. But then, somewhere, sometime, someone managed to do it. Then came contact spells, where someone with magical ability could "hold" the spell inside them. If that someone was a woman, she could have sex with a guy and change him into a girl. And unlike other "transformation" spells, like a simple nose job or magical liposuction, a guy once changed into a girl was stuck as that girl for the rest of her life. It had something to do with magic's inability to synthesize the Y chromosome. Sure, small changes could be done to them - all cosmetic in nature - but they were stuck on the distaff side for their rest of their lives. Just like me. A couple of feminist underground groups had a lot of fun with that for a time until the FBM broke them up. And now sex changes could be packaged in a simple potion. Just slip it into a guy's drink and poof! Instant girl. Well, not exactly instant. The changes took several days, but once finished, they were absolutely permanent. One little sip and it was heels and skirts for life. So it was the sex change spells that were really driving the Federal Bureau of Magic up a wall. Lurid movies, books, and TV shows had guys staying out of the bars so much that it was almost like the old times before magic cured AIDS. Whenever the Bureau got a sex change case, they let out all the stops, but not typically to the extent of going outside for help. This one must be a really sticky case, I thought to myself. When we entered the Magic Ward, Sarah Carmichael was waiting for us, along with Helen. It had been a while since I had seen the lovely redhead who had replaced my father as Director of the local FBM office. She and I had always gotten along, but we sort of ran in different circles now. Besides, since she had been offered the post of Director, I think she had become a little uncomfortable around me, since I had once been my father's heir apparent before my transformation. The job had been great for Sarah's career, but I could see it was wearing on her. I had been female just long enough to tell that her shoulder-length red hair had benefited from a little touch-up to hide the gray. Also her eyes showed significant signs of lack of sleep. I had heard from Helen and others that New Orleans was going through one of its not-infrequent crime waves, and more and more crimes were being perpetrated by magic - hence, the FBM's involvement. She nodded to me but spoke to Oliver first. "Dr. Carson?" She offered her hand. "I'm Sarah Carmichael. Thank you for coming." Oliver took her hand and smiled. "No problem, Ms. Carmichael. I'll be happy to do anything I can." Sarah then turned to me and nodded again, a little coolly, I thought. "Cassie? Did Helen call you?" "Yes," I answered, adding, "but I was already on my way over. Oliver and I were at dinner together. Oliver is Brett's father, you know." "Of course." Sarah nodded, as if she had only just remembered that I was dating Oliver's son. She knew, of course. I was sure my file was still active at the Bureau. Thankfully she said nothing about my transformation, or let on to Oliver how or why I knew the Director of the local FBM office. She tactfully added, "Since you've helped your sister and her husband on a similar case, I'm sure you can help us on this one, too." I reminded myself to thank Sarah later for that setup. I realized suddenly that she wasn't really being cool to me; rather, she was just downplaying the links between me and the Bureau for Oliver's benefit. Once I had introduced Helen to Oliver, he got down to business. "Ms. Carmichael, I know you have a number of sex change cases here in New Orleans. In fact I understand the Bureau has been swamped with them all over the country for some time. May I ask what made this one so special that you called me in?" Sarah nodded, equally ready to get down to business. She even seemed just a little relieved, pleased that Oliver was every bit as perceptive as she had hoped he would be. "Dr. Carson, I know you've done some work with victims of Slavers." She said the word very softly so as not to be heard by anyone who might suddenly come upon us. Oliver grimaced. "Yes. I have two patients who were victims of... those monsters." Monsters was exactly what they were, I thought. Of all the magical talents the accidental release of magic had foisted on the world, the Slaver was one of, if not the worst imaginable. It was fortunate their numbers were few, since they had only begun to turn up in the last two or three years and had already caused immeasurable damage. No one knew why they had turned up only recently. Some of the experts believed that other talents - such as Whispering - had mutated to cause Slavers. They deemed them simply extremely powerful Whisperers, but others weren't so certain. They pointed out that a Whisperer could modify behavior, but not on as grand a scale as a Slaver. Whisperers couldn't alter a person's memories like a Slaver could. Under the influence of a Slaver, an individual could be made to believe he or she was an entirely different person with a changed set of memories, resulting in the worst cases in complete erasure of an individual's mental existence. And to make matters worse, the few Slavers who had been profiled often exhibited other talents as well, not unlike an Omni. To make matters still worse, Transformation and Slaver talents often went hand in hand. Slavers were mean mother... well, you get the idea. Thankfully the media hadn't caught wind of the presence of Slaver talents, since Slavers generally covered their own tracks remorselessly. Only the FBM and a few other individuals with close ties to either the Bureau or the medical community even knew they existed. None had ever been taken alive. Of course, although the general public had no real knowledge of Slavers, rumors were already beginning... Slavers had the unique ability to bend others to their will. Sure, Whisperers could do that too, but Whisperers had to be subtle. Slavers had only to demand, and their victims would obediently do anything - even killing themselves, if required. To make matters worse, Slavers were always corrupted by their power. Once they began wielding it, they became malevolent and sadistic. Their sparse numbers gravitated to the S&M community, where their talents were often written off by unsuspecting individuals as just highly-effective doms, but the FBM knew better. "Who is the victim?" I asked, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach at the mere mention of Slavers. "She's a Jane Doe," Sarah explained, ushering us into a nearby conference room. "We think the Slaver robbed her of her memories and was getting ready to sell her." So this Slaver was well-labeled - a true dealer in human flesh. "And that's why you called me in," Oliver surmised, as we all took seats around a small conference table. "I have to warn you that unless you can learn something about her life before her transformation, you have very little chance of finding the perpetrator. Odds are good that the Slaver's identity is buried in the memories that were stolen from her." Sarah nodded. "You were able to restore the memories of such a girl at your clinic in Nashville. As nearly as we can tell, you're the only one who has been able to do that." "Yes," Oliver acknowledged, "but I was very fortunate. The patient was retrieved before the transformation was complete. We were able to drive a wedge between her programming and her physical nature. Your Jane Doe - how far along is her physical transformation?" Sarah's shoulders sagged. "It's complete. Then you aren't able to help if the physical transformation is complete?" "Not necessarily," Oliver clarified. "Although frankly, the best help I can give her is to help her cope with her new life. I doubt if there's anything that can be done to discern her original identity, unless we can find some way of getting her to connect with her former life, such as the encouragement of friends or family, or reintroducing her to familiar surroundings. And that will have to be done before any mental programming is completed. Is she still changing mentally?" "We think so," Sarah confirmed. "One of the doctors here at the hospital has examined her and done an MMRI. Her brain seems to be going through some changes." Sarah turned to Helen. "How about you and Brian? You've done some investigation of Slavers. Could the ones who changed our victim be the same ones?" I looked over in shock at Helen. I had no idea she and Brian had been working on any Slaver cases. If I'd known, I would have warned her against taking the case. From what little I knew of Slavers, they were about the most dangerous practitioners of magic around. The people who had changed me into a girl had been pussycats compared to Slavers, and I had nearly ended up a teen prostitute from their machinations. Helen took the question in stride. Obviously, she and Sarah had spoken about the Slavers before. "It's possible," she allowed. "Since the Slaver talent is very rare, I doubt if there are more than a couple of them in the entire region, let alone right here in the city. This fits the pattern, since the only men reported missing in the last few days are men who wouldn't be missed. Slavers favor them." "Wait a minute," I broke in. "Why does it have to be men? Why couldn't Slavers use women and just change them mentally? Wouldn't it be a lot easier than changing their sex?" Helen looked at Sarah, and I realized suddenly that there were some things known about Slavers which were top secret. Sarah gave a slight nod, to allow Helen to proceed. "Cassie, Slavers can change a victim's appearance and turn them into willing sex slaves," she began. "I assume you knew that?" "Sure." I nodded. "Go on." "The problem is," she continued, "the victim has to be male to begin with for a Slaver's power to work right. Naturally born women have a higher resistance to Slaver powers; nobody knows just why. That's just the way it is. The physical transformation is unusually the first step. Then, after about five days, the body is settled enough for the mental conversion to begin. That takes another week or so, and is usually delivered in small, measured spells, until the victim is what they intend him or her to be." "Him?" I asked. "I know most people who've at least heard of Slavers believe they always turn their victims into women, but that's not so. They can also turn them into she-males, sissies, delicate little gay males, permanent children - if the victim is a young teen to begin with - or anything else a client's perverted little mind can imagine." I involuntarily shuddered. I had had no idea they could so many perverted things. It was bad enough that they could do to others what had been done to me - changing the victim from male to female -but as for those other things... At least what had been done to me had allowed me to go on and lead a normal life - if not the life I had been born to. But what about some poor teen boy who was, say, turned into a ten year old girl for the rest of his life? What kind of monster would do that? Or worse yet, what kind of monster would pay someone to do that to another human being? "Cassie, are you all right?" Oliver asked me, gently squeezing my arm. I suddenly realized I must have looked pale - or as pale as my dark skin would allow. There, just for a moment, all of the horror of my transformation had come back to me. "Yes, I'm fine," I lied. "No, you're not all right," Helen contradicted me. "Cassie, I don't think you ought to get involved in this." Of course the unspoken reason was that Helen knew exactly what I was thinking about. She and her family had been my mental salvation as I made the forced transition from white man to African-American woman. They had taken me in as one of their family, and I'd always be grateful to them. And she was right. The last thing I should get involved in was a Slaver case, but I couldn't help it. After what had been done to me, I wanted to do everything I could to help that poor Jane Doe. I met my sister's gaze. "I'll be fine, Helen." 'Please don't slip up and say anything about my transformation,' I mentally pleaded with her. I didn't want Oliver to know - or at least not now, not like this. To my relief Helen backed down. "Okay, girl, but if you feel like backing out, don't hesitate to do so." "I won't," I promised. "But what's this about you and Brian being involved in a Slaver case?" Helen shrugged. "It was a couple of months ago. We uncovered a couple of young women who were being smuggled out of the country to be sex slaves in the Middle East. Unfortunately their minds were pretty well set in sex-toy mode, so we weren't able to learn who they had been before, but from the stories they gave the FBM about their transformations, it sounded like a Slaver. We followed up for the Bureau, at least as far as our own client's case took us, but we never learned anything about the Slaver's identity." "Cassie - last chance. Do you want to bow out of this?" Sarah asked. "No way," I replied. "Okay then," Sarah replied, visibly relieved that no one had backed away from the case. I think she needed every resource she could lay her hands on with this case. A Slaver ring loose in her city would eat up a lot of time and resources, and if the media got hold of it, it would be a disaster. She needed to crack this case quickly and quietly, or every family in the city who learned about this would feel threatened. "I've got a Holo to go through the girl's statement for us." A small mousy woman with nondescript brown hair stepped into the room and sat at the far end of the table. She wore an FBM badge on her gray suit jacket. I hadn't been aware that the FBM had a Holo on the team. They were even more rare than Slavers, but they were supposed to be invaluable in criminal cases. "What is a Holo?" Oliver asked me. I wasn't surprised that he didn't know. Even though he obviously got involved in criminal investigations, there couldn't be more than a dozen Holos in the country. I only knew of them from my former father, and even when he told me about them, there hadn't been one within a thousand miles of New Orleans. "They have the power to make a story - or in this case, a transcript - come alive," I explained. "She had to be present when the girl gave her statement, or it wouldn't work. Now, as she reads the girl's statement, we'll be able to see things as they happen from her perspective - even hearing her voice and inflections. It allows investigators to catch details the victim may have seen, but not really noticed." Oliver was obviously impressed. "I hope we figure out a way to enhance that talent in others. I could use one of them on my staff." "So could a lot of people," I told him as the Holo arranged the statement in front of her. "For the foreseeable future, though, I doubt if you or anybody outside the Federal government could afford one." The Holo looked up at us, as if noticing us for the first time. "I'd like to begin with the statement of Jane Doe..." As she read the preamble to the statement, her voice was dull and lifeless, and I began to feel as if I were about to nod off. It was part of the Holo's talent, I realized. As soon as she reached Jane Doe's actual statement, her inflection would change and we would be thrust into the story. Sure enough the Holo's voice seemed to change into that of an entirely different person as everything around me seemed to fade... (Statement of Jane Doe) I don't remember much from... before. I mean, I remember being a guy, as strange as that must seem, looking at me now. But I do remember. I remember walking across campus - I'm not sure which campus, though. I remember I was finished with classes for the day and was heading back to... back to... well, back where I lived. How do I know I was a guy? Well, I was wearing jeans, and they were a little tight in the crotch, and I could feel my dick and balls sort of twisted up there in my shorts, if you know what I mean. And I know I didn't have these... these... breasts. My chest was flat and masculine. "Hey, pal," a voice called out to me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a guy in a black Mercedes. It's funny, but I think I knew the guy, but it didn't seem strange that he would be asking me a question like that. It was sort of like things are in a dream, where what's happening doesn't make a lot of sense, but you go with the flow. Anyhow, the guy had a map unfolded in front of him. "Can you tell me how to get to the Super Bowl on this map?" "Yeah, sure." I was in an agreeable mood. Everybody usually is around Mardi Gras time. I had a party to get to, that much I seem to remember, but it would just take a minute to show him on his map. But as I leaned over to point the stadium out on his map, I heard the back door of the car unlatch, and the next thing I knew, somebody was pulling me back and covering my nose and mouth with a damp cloth. Then just like that, I was out cold. I know that doesn't give you much to go on, and if I understand how all this works, you're seeing what I saw right now. As for the driver, he was pretty average - dark brown hair, cut close, decent tan, and dark glasses, so I couldn't see his eyes. Or maybe that's not right. He may have had longish blond hair and a moustache. I can't be sure, as the memory of him just keeps shifting, but like I said, I think I knew him. I just can't settle in on what he looked like or who he was. As for the guy who gassed me? I guess I didn't see him at all, but he was damned strong - he jerked me back with no effort at all. I think he may have been a jock, but I'm not sure. Whoever he was, he was a lot stronger than I am - or I guess that should be than I was. Then there was the car. It was just your standard Mercedes sedan - black but I don't know Mercedes models well enough to tell you anything more than just that it was a sedan and that it was big and plush inside. Come to think of it, it may not have even been a Mercedes, but it was some sort of luxury car; that much I know. And it was black - definitely black. I didn't get to look around much, because whatever they gassed me with put me out damned fast. I don't know exactly how long I was out cold. It might have been minutes or it might have been days. I didn't dream and there was no sense of time. When I woke up, I was in this room - the one you're probably seeing now. Notice, though, that there were no windows - just a curtain with light behind it to simulate day and, when they turned the lights down, I suspected it would simulate night. There wasn't a lot of furniture in the room - just a bed and a straight-back chair. I was just lying there on the bed. It was a little cool, and then I realized they had taken all of my clothes. God, I hoped nobody was watching me. "Where am I?" I yelled out. Well, it wasn't really a yell; it was more of a croak. I figured whatever they had used to knock me out had made my throat a little rough. "What do you want with me?" It's funny, but waking up like that, all helpless and confused, it took me a few moments to realize that I had no idea who I was. I was just... me - a guy who had been walking after classes. I couldn't even tell you for sure where I went to school or what I was majoring in. I looked down at myself. I looked to be about twenty or so, judging from my body's appearance, and a typical white male. I yanked out a hair from my head, and it turned out to be brown. That's about all I could tell, since there wasn't a mirror in the room. If I had to guess, I imagined I was just an average guy - not real big, but not real small either. You know - average. I couldn't see what my face looked like, though, and I silently wished for a mirror. Maybe if I could see my own face, I might have some idea who I was, but there was no mirror or anything else reflective for that matter. I felt my face - average nose, average mouth, no whiskers on average cheeks. Again, I was just average. "Where am I?" I repeated. If the floor hadn't been carpeted and the walls covered with curtains or nondescript still-life paintings, my voice might have even echoed a little, but it didn't. Why was this being done to me anyhow? Since I couldn't remember who I was, I speculated that maybe I was the son of some wealthy family, and that these people, whoever they were, had kidnapped me and were holding me for ransom. Or maybe I was older than I looked and had been a spy who was about to be interrogated. If I had been a betting man (and I had no idea if I was or not), I would have laid odds on the ransom scenario. For some reason, I didn't feel like a young James Bond type. Besides, didn't all spies know how to use magic? At least that's the way it always was in the movies. I wasn't sure, but I didn't think I had much talent for magic. I sat back down on the bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, except for the uncomfortable-looking chair, and I didn't want to entertain any possible secret watchers by pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage. I figured there was nothing to do but wait. And I didn't have to wait long. As it opened I could see the door to the room was very thick and probably soundproof. That explained why I hadn't heard any noises yet. The lock, I noticed, was electronic, as I heard it buzz as the door opened. I looked into the eyes of my captor, but that's all I could see of him. He was dressed in a black jumpsuit with a black ski mask over his head. But he was pretty good-sized. Maybe he was the same guy who pulled me into the back seat of the car. Or maybe not. In any case, I was no match for him, especially lying there naked. "Stand up!" he barked in a deep voice. Not knowing what else to do, I did as he commanded. Then he walked over to me and started examining my arm, while two other similarly dressed men, both armed with what looked like tasers, stood at the door. "Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Look, I don't remember if I have any money or not, but I'll give you whatever I can if you just let me go." I could see the man's face twist up into a smile under the mask, but from his eyes, I could see that it was irony and not satisfaction that made him smile. Then he nodded, as if everything was as he expected, and told one of the men at the door, "Go ahead and bring him his meal." In a few moments a meal was brought to me on a tray table, which was positioned in front of the straight-back chair. "Eat!" my examiner told me. I was hungry. I had no idea how long I had been out cold, but it was long enough that I had worked up an appetite. It's funny; maybe I should have been too upset to eat, but I wasn't. Maybe they had messed with my mind before they plopped me in the room, I reasoned. That was probably why I couldn't remember who I was. One of them must have been a Whisperer or something. He probably calmed my mind down, too, so I wouldn't get all hysterical and cause any trouble. I sat down as they watched and polished off a plate of what tasted sort of like chicken in a mild sauce. It had already been cut up for me; that way they didn't have to give me a knife, I guess. In fact, I had to eat with a spoon. Whoever these guys were, they were taking no chances. Looking back on it, I'm sure there was something in the food to make me sleep. Right after I washed down the last of my meal with a glass of water, I began to feel sort of woozy and had to be helped back to bed. That's the last thing I remembered - until I woke up again. If I thought I had been given a shock the last time I had awakened, it was nothing compared to the shock I had when I next woke up. When I next came to, I felt funny - sort of as if everything was out of kilter. I was lying there on my stomach, with my face to one side. Something was tickling me on the side of my face, and my chest felt odd pushed down against the bed. I groaned and rolled over. I sat up and my chest seemed to shift downward a little as I did. I looked down at myself, trying to figure out what was wrong. Things were different, but not as different as they are now. It took me a moment to realize that all of my chest hair was gone and that my nipples seemed larger. Also there was a puffiness around them as if I had... Okay, sure, I've read a few porn stories about sex changes. Who hasn't? And sure, I saw that movie they made last year - what was the name of it? - oh yeah, Jack to Jackie. You know the one - it's where the guy lets himself be changed into a girl by magic and... uh... okay, maybe you didn't see it. It wasn't very good, and a girlfriend of mine - what was her name? - she said she knew a guy who got changed by magic into a girl and it didn't really work like that. Anyhow, it became pretty obvious as to what was happening to me. I had been kidnapped for some reason and was being changed into a girl. At least that told me who I probably was, I realized grimly. It's pretty well known that winos and druggies are scooped up and changed into girls to be used as sex slaves. All the rags have stories on it. I must have been a junkie or a drunk who got picked up and changed. That probably explained why I couldn't remember who I was. Some of the drugs out there now can cause all kinds of nasty stuff - including amnesia. So maybe I wasn't a college student after all. Or maybe I was a college student with a drug problem. I had no way of knowing. I looked down past the developing breasts, fearful that I would find my manhood completely gone. It wasn't, but that was only a small comfort - "small" being the operative word. Everything down there was smaller, like it had been when I was twelve. Funny, but I could remember being twelve. I could remember being a young boy, riding my bike, playing baseball... But when I tried to remember who I was, or who my parents were, or the names and faces of any of my friends, I drew a complete blank. As I was mulling that over, the door opened again. I couldn't tell for sure, but the man who entered looked like the same man who had checked me out the day before. "Stand up!" I did as he demanded. It wasn't as if I had a choice, what with the two other guys standing by the door. Besides, if I was right and they were turning me into a girl, I had probably already lost a significant amount of my physical strength. I was no match for any of them - certainly not now anyway. Somehow, knowing that my body was now at least partially female made the physical examination even more embarrassing than the one the previous day. He grabbed my ass, apparently pleased that it had grown some. He was less pleased when he looked at my genitals. I didn't know why, since they were certainly smaller. Maybe he had been expecting some more dramatic changes. He looked over my face, grunting as if the changes there were about what he expected. Did I have baby blue eyes now with long lashes, I wondered? For that matter, I wasn't sure what color my eyes had been before, so I suppose it didn't matter. He rubbed some of my longer hair through his fingers, nodding in approval. Then he looked at my chest. He gently pressed the tissue beneath my nipples, and I flushed in embarrassment when it became obvious to me that there was actually some development there. Then, with a thumb and forefinger, he rubbed one of my nipples. The feeling was strangely pleasant. Like most men, my nipples had always been only slightly sensitive, but now... Before I could stop myself, I gave out a little groan. He smiled. "Liked that, did you? Just wait. When you're done, you'll have a lot more to like." "Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, more breathily than I had intended. He ignored my question, turning to the other men. "Bring in her meal." The "her" wasn't lost on me. I resented it, actually. After all, I was still male where it counted. If I remembered right, most sex change spells took from three to five days to complete themselves. I assumed that my sexual organs would be among the last to change, so as far as I was concerned, I was still male and I planned to think of myself in just that way for as long as I could. But I didn't challenge him on that point. I certainly wasn't in any position to do so. The meal was set up the same way as the day before. Once again, I found myself very hungry, so I sat down and dug in. It wasn't until I was about half way through the meal that I had a sudden epiphany: The food, I realized. I was being drugged. There was something in it to make me calmer and more cooperative. Maybe the food also contained whatever was changing me into a girl. That had to be it. I wasn't taking any chances. I scooted the chair back from the table. "Finish your meal," my chief captor demanded. "I'm not hungry," I protested. I could feel him step closer behind me. "Finish your meal," he repeated. What could they do to me? I had already come to the conclusion that I was just a hapless derelict who was to be changed into a compliant little slave girl. Because of that, they would want me in prime condition - no cuts, bruises, broken bones, at least not until they had turned me over to my master. I ignored the command. The next thing I knew, my chief captor had grabbed my head and forced open my jaws while one of the other men force fed me. I tried my best to resist, but they were too strong for me. I suddenly realized I was crying, tears rolling down my cheeks like... like... a woman. Frustrated and helpless, my resistance waned, and in short order, they forced the rest of my meal into me. You know, I really think they could have magically commanded me to eat and I would have done so, but I think they physically forced me to eat just to prove a point - that they were in control of me, and if I didn't cooperate, the punishments would be unpleasant. The lesson wasn't lost on me. I lay there alone after they had left, sobbing softly to myself. Before, I had been confused and disoriented, but now add to that, I had become frightened. Was it the manhandling they had given me, or were the drugs in the food having a greater effect - or both? I couldn't be certain, but as I drifted off to sleep, I realized grimly that I was well on my way to becoming a frightened, helpless little girl - exactly what they probably wanted me to be. Now when I said "little girl", I didn't mean that literally. I had assumed that they were changing me into someone about my own age... How old was that, you ask? Well, I'm not sure, but it seemed to me, judging on my appearance when I had first awakened that I must have been somewhere between late teens and early twenties. I can't be sure, of course, but that age band just seems about right. If I had to make a guess, I would say I was probably eighteen or nineteen - certainly no more than twenty. But I admit, that's just a guess. To continue, when I awakened the next day, I sat up and began the daily ritual of seeing what had changed. I now had definite breasts - not big ones exactly, but they felt big since I had never had them before. My butt was also larger, but only relative to the rest of my body. I felt... I don't know - smaller, I guess. To test my feelings, I lay back down un the bed, feeling longish hair tickling my ears and my shoulders. I lay my head on the pillow and stretched out, noting where my now smaller feet were positioned. Yes, I was certainly shorter. But upon rising again, I felt as if I was smaller than I should be - perhaps no more than five feet or so. If I was to be sold as a sex slave (a likely probability, I told myself), I would be awfully short, since I was certain to shrink still more before the process was finished. The doctor told me I'm really five-two, so I guess I wasn't as short as I thought, but I sure felt short. Standing I examined the rest of my body, finding pretty much what I expected to find: My figure was becoming more feminine. In addition to the small but growing breasts, my hips had widened somewhat and my waist was indenting. My legs and arms were slimmer and hairless. I wondered if they had been magically shorn of hair, or if my captors had come in during the night and shaved me. Of course I couldn't see my face, but that didn't mean I knew nothing about it. With a hand which was becoming daintier, I felt my hairless cheeks, my smaller nose and ears, and pulled a strand of silky brown hair. Had I always had brown hair? I wasn't sure. Something told me I had, but I couldn't swear to it. At least I knew it had been brown when I had first awakened in the room. "Shit," I muttered, unsettled by how melodic my voice was becoming. I knew that one's voice always seems higher and less resonant to someone else, but as high as mine sounded already, I was going to sound like Shirley Temple before much longer. Closer inspection showed me I still had my male equipment, but it was certainly nothing to brag about. If I had gotten into "who's longer" contest with a six year old, I would have probably lost. I dropped my hand from my crotch as I heard the buzz of the electronic lock once again. "Like what you see?" my captor taunted me as he caught me with my hand still on my shrinking genitals. "No." My reply sounded like a pouting little girl. I reddened in embarrassment. He stood there admiring me, a twinkle in his eyes. "Well, tomorrow will be the big day. You'll be all finished then, most likely. At least we'll be able to start your training then." I'm sure the look on my face was one of terror and apprehension. "Don't worry," he laughed. "No one here is going to deflower you or make you do anything disgusting. That's for your buyer to do. Ah! I can see by the look on your face that you know you're to be sold." "Slavery is illegal," I said weakly, as if he didn't know it. "Oh yes," he agreed. "That's what makes buying a girl like you so delicious. Customers tell us it's a real rush, to buy and train a girl - especially an American girl. They're all so na?ve and pampered. You'll fetch a good price after we've trained you." "Why go to all the expense of this?" I demanded. "Why not use real girls?" "For some men, taming a real girl is too easy. But a girl with the mind of a man is much more fun to train. We'll teach you the fundamentals - feminine hygiene, how to do your hair and makeup, that sort of thing. It will only take us a couple of days. Then the Boss will sell you to someone - probably from Africa or the Middle East, since some of the men here have a real yen for sweet young American girls - and you'll be on your way to a whole new life." In spite of whatever they were putting in my food to make me docile, I wanted very badly to attack my captor, but I knew it would accomplish nothing if I did. I was too small now, and far too weak to do any damage. After all, what could I do? Scratch him with my growing nails? As usual, after he had inspected me, my meal was set out. And once again, I was out cold a few minutes after they took the tray away. It should have been the same routine as before, but this time, something happened - something no one expected. When I awoke, my room was dark - very dark. What woke me was the sound of gunshots. "Don't shoot, you idiot!" someone yelled. "But she's getting away!" another voice called out. "You might hit one of us," the first voice called back. I sat up, groggy, but getting more alert. I suppose there's something about gunfire that will do that to a person even under the influence of a mild sedative. As I said, it was dark. I literally wasn't able to see my hand in front of my face. In fact, the only light I could see was a faint yellow strip in the direction of the door. The door! It was open, and there were no lights except what I suddenly realized must be emergency lighting. The power must have failed, I realized, and that meant the doors, held by magnetic locks, had failed. Okay, I was naked, still a little out of it from the sedatives, and in a body which had become increasingly foreign to me each time I awakened. But I wasn't so out of it that I didn't realize that my captors were not at their best either. It must have really been night, I reasoned, and they had been in full light until perhaps only a few minutes earlier. Their eyes were not accustomed to the darkness, and the emergency lights wouldn't have been sufficient to offset that. Also, from the banter in the hallway, it sounded as if I wasn't the only captive in the building. How many others were there -one, five, even more? If all of the locks had failed at the same time, they might lack sufficient manpower to contain all of us. And finally, their lack of desire to use their weapons, potentially damaging valuable property (in other words, us), the guns would be more of a hindrance than a help. They would be carrying the weapons and thus unable to use their hands effectively. Without thinking I dashed for the door. Sometimes a near-disaster becomes a golden opportunity. In my case I threw open the door at the exact moment one of the guards pushed against it to open it. In the darkness, his weapon precluding the use of his hands to prop himself up, he tumbled to the floor, his gun sliding across the floor and right into my foot. Without thinking I grabbed it, cradling the unfamiliar weapon in my hands. I don't know much about guns, and I suspect I never did, but I thought maybe I could bluff my way out with the weapon. Then a hand clasped my ankle. "I've got one of them!" a voice on the floor called out. Then I did something I don't know if I could ever do again in a million years, but I was so panicked and desperate that my fumbling hands somehow found a small tab which had to be the safety. I don't even remember pulling the trigger, but suddenly, only a moment after the guard had grabbed my ankle, there was a loud pop and a brilliant flash, followed almost at once by a surprised yelp at my feet. I don't think I hit him, but I surprised him enough that he let me go. "I said no shooting!" a voice yelled from down the hall. Obviously I didn't answer, and I knew that once my assailant had overcome his shock, he'd be calling for help. The gun still in my hand, I bolted down the hallway in the direction away from the voice. It isn't easy running stark naked through a darkened building - especially in an unfamiliar body. I could feel my new breasts flopping up and down as I ran aimlessly through the darkness. My widened hips caused me to move awkwardly, and even the smallest object on the floor stung when my bare feet stepped on it. Once, whatever I stepped on was enough to cause me to lose my balance. I lost my grip on the gun and could hear it skittering across the floor into the darkness. There was no time to look for it, though. All I could think of was getting away. Looking back on it, I think I must have gotten further than any of the guards had expected me to go. And given that there may have been more prisoners than guards - a normal situation I would have imagined - I guessed that my kidnappers had other problems to contend with. In any case, as the confused voices of the guards and the shrill screams of the other captives faded in the distance, I managed in the dim emergency lighting to find another door, only this one looked to be an exit. I would imagine the main door was also magnetically sealed, for it opened effortlessly, and I soon found myself on the loading dock of a warehouse. There were no lights nearby, so the power failure must have affected everything for several blocks. Beyond the string of other warehouses, I could see the lights of the New Orleans skyline, and I knew at once I was in one of the many storage buildings down on the river. Parked below the loading dock were three cars. Did that mean there were only three guards? Not necessarily, I cautioned myself. Only one of the cars was a two-seater, so there could be ten or twelve carpooling guards for all I knew. I sure didn't want to stick around to find out. Still I didn't want to be seen running naked down the streets, either. As panicked as I was, I had had little to think about in my brief waking hours for the last couple of days, except my reduced size and strength. I might not remember who I was - or maybe had been - but I had plenty of other memories of rough, dark districts of the city, where even in my male body, I would have feared to walk day or night. I'd be a tempting target for the first lowlife who spotted me. This was a part of the city which could prove dangerous even when the lights were working properly. Now the warehouse district isn't what it used to be. What with containerized shipping and all, the old warehouses along the river had been in decline for years. Recently a number of them had been converted into lofts, galleries, restaurants and the like, but I estimated I was a good three blocks from those gentrified areas. That meant three blocks walking down dark streets strewn with debris and where the only pedestrians might easily be predators. If one of them didn't get me, the tetanus I contracted from stepping on something sharp and dirty would. Still, what choice did I have? The lights could come on again any moment, and my guards could get the upper hand immediately. Or what if one of them decided to look outside on the offhand chance that one of their prisoners had made it that far? Running was my only option - unless I wanted to contemplate a lifetime of slavery. I knew I didn't have much time to make good my escape, but I wouldn't make it far without shoes or clothing. In desperation, I looked in each of the cars for something I could use. In the second car I checked, a t-shirt, running shorts, and a pair of Nikes lay in the back seat where they had been carelessly tossed. Holding my breath, I tried the door, and to my surprise and relief, found it unlocked. I slipped on the shoes at once. Of course they were much too big for me, since as a girl, my feet were far smaller than they had been. Still, if I was careful and sort of shuffled as I walked, I managed to keep them on. I was able to find cover in the shadows between two buildings where I could slip on the shorts and t-shirt. I barely made it in time. As I ducked behind a dumpster two men rushed out of the warehouse where I had been held prisoner. They were still dressed in black, but their facemasks had been removed. They were too far away for me to see their faces clearly, but from their motions, I could tell they were after someone, and that "someone" had to be me. As quickly as I could, I put on the t-shirt, wishing that it were any color but white. Once I got away from the darkened area, the sodium vapor street lights were few and far between, but couple them with private security lighting, including a couple of magical halos, and I would be spotted if I ran out into the street. Even in the darkness, they might spy the white t-shirt. The t-shirt was so large on me, it could be used as a dress, and since I soon found the shorts, even with their elastic waist band, fit too loosely over my hips, I decided to forego them and just wear the shirt. After all, in the oversized shoes, I wouldn't be running fast enough for the shirt to whip up too far and expose my nearly-female genitals. Since the street was chancy, I fled further back in the alley, hoping there would be nothing to block its exit. My luck held, but as I turned the corner, I could hear voices yelling from near the dumpster. I cursed myself for leaving the shorts behind. They had obviously found them and assumed that I had stolen them. Still, they hadn't spotted me. That meant they would have to look up and down the street as well, and with the lack of illumination, that would take time. I paced myself, trying not to panic. If I did so, I would probably run right out of the Nikes, or trip and fall in them. Shuffling as fast as I dared, I covered nearly half the distance to the well-lighted upscale neighborhood ahead before I ran into trouble. "What have we got here, man?" a creepy voice called out from just across the street. Coming out of the darkened area and into an intersection where the street lights still worked had seemed like traveling from peril to safety. It seemed I had been wrong, though. Fearful that my captors had found me, I turned to face them and gasped. Fortunately they weren't dressed as my captors were, favoring instead wife-beater shirts and jeans. They were white - one with stringy blond hair and the other with a shaved head and a Pancho Villa mustache. But I wasn't going to run to them. I knew what I looked like, and those guys didn't exactly look like knights in shining armor. "Forget it, man," the blond guy growled. "She's jail bait." "Old enough to bleed," the other one returned ominously, "old enough to butcher." He started toward me. Shit! I thought. There was no way I could outrun them. And from the bald one's statement, I knew what he had in mind. I had no choice; I had to run again. The street gave way to a sidewalk about half a block away, so I took my chances and ran in the overly-large shoes, figuring the sidewalk would be clean enough to allow me to run barefoot. It took me only a few seconds, though, to realize that I wasn't going to make it. They were nearly on me when I heard a shot from some distance away and something whizzed over my shoulder. I don't think it was a bullet; I suspect it was a tranquillizer dart, since my captors wouldn't want to kill me, but the two toughs pursuing me didn't know that. It seemed my captors had spotted me and were trying to take me down. "What the fuck!" one of them screamed - I think it was the blond. His voice was so close I'm sure they would have caught me in a few more steps, but the shot caused them to change their plans. "It's the Sultans!" the bald one yelled, identifying my captors as members of a local gang. Of course I was sure they weren't Sultans, but my pursuers probably wouldn't have lasted long on the night streets of the city without being just a little bit paranoid. Whoever they were, the Sultans were obviously their rivals. I head two guns blasting away just behind me as I ran, and I was sure they weren't firing tranquillizer darts. It was ironic, but my would-be rapists had just become my saviors. I don't know if they hit anything or not, but I heard a lot of yelling down the street. I let up my pace a little bit, knowing that all of my enemies were now busy with each other. After what seemed like a lifetime, I was on a smooth sidewalk, bathed in light from a nearby street light. The girl I had been turned into wasn't very strong, and I was winded. I took a chance that my enemies would be tied up for several minutes and slackened my pace. My body was covered in perspiration, from running and from fear. It was plastered to my body so transparently that I could have easily won a wet t-shirt contest. Also, it had ridden up along my hips, exposing what I suddenly saw in the streetlight my new vagina. Maybe the fear and the exercise had accelerated my transformation - or maybe I still had something male there that looked female. I didn't have time to examine myself closely. As far as I knew I was all woman now - or at least all woman for all practical purposes. I tugged the t- shirt back down and pulled it away from my nipples, a little ashamed at how good the material felt sliding over my breasts. It figured that when they changed me, they made my body sensitive. Their plans for me obviously included lots of steamy sex. My luck held. Within a block, there were the lights of a small convenience store. A few people were milling around out in front of it, but none appeared to be a threat. Nonetheless, I got some pointed stares as I walked past them - the men staring with approval and the women with disgust. I didn't care. I was safe at last. The clerk at the little convenience store I rushed into must have been half asleep, because he jumped up in alarm as I approached the counter. What - did he think a little slip of a girl dressed only in a t-shirt was going to rob him? "Call the police!" I demanded, trying to make my sweet little voice sound authoritative. He stood frozen, looking at me as if I had just landed from Mars. "Didn't you hear me? They're after me. They could be here any minute. Now call the police!" At last he fumbled with the phone, and stammered the situation to the 911 operator. "Are you okay?" he finally asked, the phone still hanging loosely in his hand. I just wished he had been looking me in the eyes when he asked me. It was disconcerting to have a conversation with someone who wouldn't look above my chest. "Yeah," I managed. "I think so." There was no sense in telling him that given what had been done to me, it was very unlikely that I'd ever be okay again... "Cassie, wake up!" I opened my eyes and looked around the table. Everyone looked a little disturbed, so I hoped they didn't notice how shaken I was. The girl's story brought back a number of unpleasant memories, and through her memories, I relived the worst days of my life - days in which I was nearly made into a would-be teen whore by unscrupulous plotters intent on ruining my father. In the year since my own transformation I had gotten used to being a girl. The feeling of awakening in the morning with long hair in my face and breasts weighting down my chest had become normal. Applying my makeup and picking out a matching outfit were now second nature to me. And as for what was (or wasn't) between my legs, well, Brett had given me a new appreciation for female orgasms. If given the chance to return to my privileged life as a white male, I would have respectfully declined. As a young African-American woman, I was content with my new life. All that being said, I could still empathize with our Jane Doe's sense of loss and disorientation. I had been there myself. Would she eventually become happy with her female existence? That was hard to say, and perhaps Oliver would be able to help her get there. "That was...unsettling," Helen murmured. She looked over at me with concern, probably realizing the feelings I must be having. "I know," Sarah agreed as the Holo wordlessly slipped out of the room. "That's actually the fifth time I've experienced a statement under Holo like this - and the second time I've experienced our Jane Doe's. The statements are always disconcerting." "But we saw things the Jane Doe just talked about," I pointed out. "Were they real? I mean, were we actually seeing through her eyes?" Sarah smiled grimly. "That is something of a legal bone of contention. The answer seems to be mostly, yes. But mostly isn't good enough for a courtroom. The mind sort of fills in the details even when our Holoed witness can't remember clearly. That's why Holoed testimony isn't admissible in court." "Still, it may help you catch the perpetrators," Oliver pointed out. Of all of us he seemed the least disturbed by what he had just witnessed, in spite of experiencing his first Holo. Of course I realized, in his profession, he had probably been involved in a number of similar cases, hearing the sordid details directly from the victims, so he wa