In 1864, a squad of soldiers out searching for food and supplies, instead find new lives.

This story is a gargoyle. It wouldn't let me finish up week 12 of the next Eerie Saloon story until I posted it.

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Ellie Dauber (c) 2013

All right, I’ll tell you the story, if you insist — really insist, but you gotta promise that you won’t ask any questions, while I’m talking, and that you’ll let me finish. It’s hard enough to say what I’m gonna to say. The last thing I want is for you to interrupt me.

Mmm, and no kissing me like that, while I’m talking, either. We can just go screw some more; you did pay for the whole night. Or I can tell you how I came to be here. One or the other, Lover Man, but not both. Aahh… oh, yeah — not both.

Please.

Good choice. Besides, we can… pick things up later. You certainly look like a man who can rise to the occasion again. And again and again, I’m thinking. But now, let’s get on with the tale.

* * * * *

It was — what — maybe two years ago, spring of 1864. We was a five-man squad, one of who knows… Yes, I said a five-man squad, and you promised not to interrupt. Quantrill sent a few squads, out every day by to reconnoiter for supplies. That mean hunt down any food or weapons or anything else that could be useful and bring it back to camp. If whoever had any of them things didn’t want to… share, they had two choices. We could shoot ‘em as Yankee spies, or we could shoot ‘em as traitors to the “noble” southern cause.

The Sarge — Tom Garrity, his name was -- he liked to toss a coin to decide which, ah, reason to use. Sometimes he even let the farmer we was taking the stuff from call the coin toss. “You decided to die,” he told one man. “Least I can do is let you decide why.” Laugh a minute, the Sarge was. He wasn’t a big man, but he had broad shoulders and fists the size of two hams. If he ever hit you, staying down was your best bet.

I still remember that day. We’d been riding since late morning without much luck. We passed a grove of apple trees, but it was May. You can’t eat blossoms, no matter how good they smell. We hadn’t seen no animal bigger than a squirrel the whole damned day, and, personally, I’d eaten more than enough squirrel stew, thank you very much.

Now the sun was getting low. Mick O’Bannon said we should head back to camp. “Maybe somebody else found something,” he said, “and if not, well, hardtack and salt pork is better ‘n’ nothing.” Mick was another Irishman, one of them Fenians, in fact. Helping us drive out the Yanks — it was practice, he said, for driving the Brits out of Ireland. Almost bald, he was, except for a mass of bright red hair over each ear, that stretched down into enormous matching mutton chop sideburns.

We all agreed and started back. Except just then, Billy Tatem yells out, “Over there!” It was a light off in the distance half hidden by some trees. He pointed, and we all saw it. A light meant a house… people. And all those things that we was supposed to bring back to camp.

Billy started galloping towards the light, but Garrity called him back. “We don’t wanna warm ‘em,” he told us. “We ride in slow, quiet like, we got a better chance o’surprising ‘em. Some folks get downright stubborn when soldiers come for stuff they don’t wanna contribute.”

We rode in slow, trying real hard not to make any noise. There was forest almost all the way to the house, big trees, oaks and elms. They’re not there now, but they were then. — No, don’t ask why.

When we got in close, about fifty yards, the Sarge had us split up. Him and Mick kept on going straight. Billy and Sam Fox and me -- I was a corporal -- circled around towards the back. Two riders are less scary than five, and the three of us would be ready in case whoever was in that house made a run out the back way.

I took a look at the place while we were riding around it. The place was a big farmhouse, two stories and lots of shuttered windows. There was a henhouse by the back door, and I saw a couple of birds scratching for food inside a wire mesh yard. We could hear them clucking; heard a cow mooing away, too, inside a barn about fifty feet from the house. “Hoowee,” Sam hissed at me. “We’s gonna eat t’night.”

Billy and Sam was a couple of big, old farm boys, lifelong friends who’d joined up the same day. They was tall, all muscle — including between their ears — and they could eat more than any other three men in the platoon.

We got off our horses and tied them to a post near the barn. I had Billy take a quick look inside the barn, two cows and, better yet, no people, he said. We moved into place. Billy stayed by the barn. Sam ran over near the henhouse. I stayed in the middle. We drew our pistols, and I nodded for Sam to make his magpie call. That was the signal to the Sarge that we were ready.

Somebody must’ve been watching ’cause the backdoor opened a crack. We froze, weapons aimed at the door, waiting to see if anybody was coming out.

Then there was a bright yellow flash, like a big bomb or something going off. I felt myself falling, and things went all black.

* * * * *

Next thing I knew, I was spread out on something soft, that Persian rug you must’ve seen in the parlor room downstairs. I opened my eyes and looked around. My head was at an angle and I could see Mick on the floor to the left of me. I tried to move my head, to see who else was there, but I couldn’t do that no how.

All of a sudden, there was a face staring down at me, a darkie. She looked older than the hills. Her face was shriveled up and full of wrinkles like an apple still left in the barrel at the end of a long winter. Her hair was stray wisps of snow white hair. She poked me in the chest and said, “Dey’s all awake now.” in a voice that sounded a lot younger than she looked. “Git up, boy,” she ordered.

Just like that, I could move. In fact, it felt like I had to move. Without knowing why, I rolled over and scrambled to my feet. The rest of the squad — they was all there — was doing the same thing. Only once I — once we -- was standing, we couldn’t, none of us, take another step.

“I am Honoré deLancie,” a second woman’s voice said, and we all turned to face her.

You’ve seen the Madame, so you know how she looks. This was the first time I’d seen her, and, as always, she was something to see. She was sitting in a highback wicker chair that looked like a throne, wearing a long, deep purple gown with a tight fitting bodice and a low, V-shaped neckline. Between them, they showed her athletic, womanly figure: ample breasts; waist almost small enough that a man could put his hands around it; and wide, childbearing hips. The only jewelry she wore was a silk collar the same purple as her dress. It had a dark yellow gem in the center. Her face was long with a long, aristocratic nose, full rosy lips that were curled in a mischievous smile, and framed in a mass of curls, black as night, that flowed down over her shoulders.

Now the only women any of us had seen in the last two months was dried up old farm wives, wrinkled and skinny and brown from working too hard in the sun. If they was ever juicy young gals, it was too long ago, and if there’d been any daughters even close to old enough to fuck, they was long gone, hiding from us. Now here was this… goddess sitting there right in front of us. All but asking for it, she was. Lemme tell you, mine wasn’t the only pecker — yes, my pecker — getting hard.

She just smiled even more broadly. “What interesting thoughts you men have.” She chuckled, amused, like she knew something we didn’t. And, Lordy, was I right on that. “The rape I would never allow, and, while one or two of you might barely be capable of the level of male ardor I require, that will not be the situation for very much longer.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The Sarge was mad. He took a step towards her, his hands curled into fists. “If you th --” His lips kept moving, but no sound came out. He started to gasp, grabbing at his throat like he couldn’t breathe. After a minute or so, he sunk down to his knees. He was still gasping, and his face was turning blue.

“Shall I re-open your windpipe, Sergeant Garrity,” the woman asked in a firm tone of voice, “or would you prefer to suffocate for your rudeness?”

Sarge managed to grunt something and shook his head “No.” Madame Honoré made some sort of gesture, and he took a big gulp of air into his lungs. He took a couple more and tried to get back on his feet. He was still a little shaky, though, and Billy and Mick had to help him get up.

“For your presumption, you shall be first, I think.” She pointed at Sarge who was now standing on his own, next to a big, black walnut chair. He seemed to freeze in place, not able to move. He just stood there with a surprised, kind of angry look on his face, while his clothes fell off. No, I mean it, his shirt and pants, even his boots shredded into scraps and dropped to the floor around him. Them scraps turned to dust and… blew away.

He was just standing there in his underwear, a pair of baggy, calf-length gray cotton drawers and a long sleeve shirt made of the same dull gray cloth. It was drafty in that room, and he shivered, maybe from the cold or, maybe, from what was happening to him.

Then, sudden like, he started to shrink. I told you that he wasn’t too tall, five foot seven, maybe, but he dropped down to just barely five foot tall. He got thinner, too, a lot narrower in the shoulders, and all the muscle in his arms and torso just sorta melted away. He’s balled his hands into fists just before she froze him, and now them fists wasn’t half as big as before. They was almost… dainty.

The crazy part was, his clothes still fit. Then they started changing. The gray just bleached out of them till they was pure white. The legs of his drawers moved up till they was just below his knees. The cloth looked softer, and, all of a sudden, there was lace trim at the bottom, where they tied off. The ties was a couple of strips of lace, too, and so was the ones at his waist.

They same thing happened to his shirt. The sleeves faded away, like they was made of smoke. And the collar got bigger. It started off close around his neck, but I stretched out so it was almost to his shoulders. It moved down a few inches, till you could see his collar bone clear as day. All that was left above that was two thin strips that went up over his shoulders,

And they was all lacy. There was rows of lace trim on his shirt, too. And the brown button, they was white now, too, covered with cloth and looking like a row of little flowers. He wasn’t in a man’s shirt and drawers, no more. The top was one of them ladies camisoles, all satiny cotton with a little blue bow in the center of his collar. And them drawers was still drawers, but they was soft and silky, gal’s drawers all trimmed with lace.

The Sarge looked down, trying t’figure what happened to his body and his clothes. “Any o’you no-account A-holes say one word, I will --”

All of a sudden, he stopped talking. He looked like he was trying to, but nothing came out. His eyes got wide and his arms stretched out, like he was trying to stop something.

And he began to change some more.

His hair got thick and curly… and long. It crept down over his ears, down ‘round his neck, and halfway down his back. His bulldog jaw rounded out, so his face went from square to… I don’t know, heart-shaped, I guess you’d call it. While that was happening, his bushy eyebrows got thinner and his big, hawk nose got smaller. His lips got bigger, too, full and luscious. He looked younger, too, no more’n twenty, if he was a day.

He was already thin, but now, his filled out, some. It got rounder, curvier. His waist was narrower — and the camisole shrank to fit that. His hips was wider now, too, and his legs was longer now and supple, with a sweet curve to his calves, and tiny little feet.

Except for the bulge at his groin and the lack of any bulges on his chest, Sergeant Tom Garrity of the Army of the Confederacy looked like a sweet, little gal, posing for us in her dainty under things.

Then there was more changes.

The bulge down between his legs, it looked so outta place there in them girly drawers. Hmmm, not like yours, da-darling, your looks like it’s almost right where it belongs. Yeah — giggle — I said almost, ‘cause it looks good where it is, and it feels good when you and me, well, you know…

Back to the story, I guess. The Sarge’s head jerked and, best as he could, he looked down. That bulge, it got smaller and smaller, and smaller, till it was gone. Till, the place down there between his — or was it her legs, was as flat and smooth as any other gal’s.

And her — I gotta call the Sarge her — her chest was as unflat as any other girl’s. First there was tiny bumps that you could barely see, no bigger than a couple of grapes. Then they got bigger, plums, apples… melons, sweet, juicy, round melons filling the bodice of her camisole. I think that camisole had to grow some, so it’d still fit after she got so big. I could see the top of them pretty tits displayed for all the world t’see.

But something else was happening. The Sarge got a funny, scared sorta look in her eyes. Her mouth fell open, and she started t’make noises in that high, girly voice she had now. She was gasping, and moaning, shaking her head like something was happening to her. Her face got red, and her head was moving back and forth. Her face was getting red, too.

She started to shake, trembling all over. Her fingers twitched like she was trying to move her hands or her arms, but she couldn’t. She staggered a couple of steps and collapsed down into the chair. Her head rolled back. She grabbed the arms of that chair so hard her knuckles almost went white. She didn’t seem to be hurting, though. She was smiling, almost grinning, like she was sure as hell enjoying herself. And her tits, I could see them nipples o’hers poking out the front of her camisole.

All of a sudden, she started moaning, “Oohh… oohh…” over ‘n’ over again. Her legs was wide apart, and her back was bowed like she was pushing against something. Her hips was jerking back and forth to the rhythm of her moans. Them moans got loud — she was almost shrieking. Then sudden like, she let out a howl. She trembled and shook for a minute or so, before she stopped moving and just sank back in that chair like her whole body’d gone limp.

She closed her eyes for a second and let out a deep sigh. Then she smiled, a big, happy smile like she’d just done something wonderful. She had, but we didn’t know that… yet. She stood up and started walking towards us. She didn’t walk like the Sarge had, all stiff and strutting, almost like a march. She walked slow, her hips swiveling back and forth like they was on springs, and her smile was big as ever.

Billy Tatem was the closest. She got in real close, almost close enough that her and him was touched. “Man…” she said in a husky voice that almost sounded like a purr. She put her hands on his arms, palms touching him, and slowly moved them up to his shoulders.

Billy tried to move, to get away, but he couldn’t. “What’re you doing, Sarge,” he asked in shaky voice.

“I ain’t your sergeant, Tom Garrity, no more,” the gal said. “I used t’be him, but he’s… gone.” Her voice was still low. It still had that husky purr in it. “I’m… Thelma Garrity now, and I want you.” Her arms slid up and around his shoulders, pulling him down. And when his head was close enough t’hers, she kissed him, kissed him hard.

Billy tried to fight it, but he was only human. His arms wrapped around her, and he kept on kissing her. She was moaning and rubbing her body against him like a cat in heat.

“That is enough, Thelma.” That deLancie woman’s voice rang out loud and clear. Thelma stopped the kiss and stepped back. Billy, he just stood there, hunched over, his arms stretched out like he wanted to yank her back into them for another kiss. The lady chuckled. “You are dismissed,”

Thelma did a little curtsy. “Yes, Madame.” She turned and walked, hips swaying, through a door that I hadn’t seen a moment before.

“Thelma has chosen who shall be next to transform.” She pointed at Billy. Well, to keep the story a little shorter, in a couple o’minutes, there weren’t no Billy Tatem no more. Instead, there was Belinda Tatem. She had long, brown hair, done up in a couple of braids, and deep blue eyes. She had all the curves that the Sar… that Thelma had, and hers was tucked inside a pale blue corset that made her tits look even bigger than they was and drawers that barely got past her hips. Her stockings was the same blue as her corset, with dark blue garters holding them tight.

And she was kissing me. One arm was up around my neck. The other was reaching down, so them new long fingers o’hers could play with my pecker right through my trousers. I was shitting a brick ‘cause I figured I was gonna be next, but, damn, Belinda could kiss! Her tongue was in my mouth, playing tag with my own, and she got that pecker o’mine feeling as long and as hard as my Enfield rifle. Don’t you look at me like that, I told you, I was a man when this whole damned thing started.

Anyway, Madame deLancie must’ve said something ‘cause she broke the kiss and stepped away. I tried grabbing for her, but I couldn’t move. She gave me a smile. “Bye, bye, Clarence, sweetie.” She kissed me again, a quick peck on the cheek, and walked out through that same door.

Don’t look at me like that. Yes, my name was Clarence. Yes, that Clarence; now lemme finish the story. We can talk about the other stuff later.

“You are next,” the Madame told me, a wicked smile curling her lips. Then she made that same damned gesture at me that she made at the Sarge and Billy.

Even when you know it’s gonna happen, it’s not an easy thing t’watch your uniform turn t’dust and blow away. Or t’watch your long johns turn from scratchy, gray wool to soft, white cotton. I had my arms out t’grab for Belinda, and I saw the sleeves of my long johns just… disappear.

Then, sudden like, I felt a sorta prickling under my skin. The room seemed t’get bigger, but I knew it was me getting smaller. I was still feeling that funny feeling when I stopped shrinking. Well, stopped getting shorter.

My arms was still shrinking, all the muscles I had from all them years of hard work just melted away, my arms was thin, supple. My hands was smaller. My fingers was longer then; so was my fingernails. The hair on my arms was getting more ‘n’ more sparse. Hairs was falling off or getting sucked back in under my skin. I don’t know what, but in a counry minute, my arms was hairless and smooth.

I figured my whole body was changing now. My scalp itched, and I felt my hair grow out, tickling my ears, and then coming down ‘round my neck. My face felt funny, too. My jaw hurt, and my lips got all puffy. The prickly feeling moved on down to my shoulders and my body. It was sorta like being in a vise, getting squeezed, especially at my waist. My hips and my ass felt like they was stretching.

The old nigra woman laughed — it was more like a cackle, t’tell the truth. “This one’s gonna be a real money maker when she’s done.” Madame deLancie, she agreed.

The prickling hit my chest. I felt like something was growing out — my new tits — pushing against the soft, cool cloth of whatever my long johns shit was now. They got bigger ‘n’ bigger, like Thelma’s and Belinda’s — shit, I realized that I couldn’t even think of ‘em as the Sarge and Billy no more. And I could feel the weight of my tits, now. No telling how big they got.

And the worst was coming up next. I got me a bodacious hard on. It felt like there was a foot-long piece of steel hanging down b’tween my legs, and I must’ve had a gallon of cum in my balls. It felt good, so damned good. Until that feeling started t’go away. My dick started getting numb, and, pretty soon, I couldn’t feel it at all. . My balls was drained, too, and they sorta climbed up inside me. All sorts of things was going on down there, but none of ‘em had anything t’do with the prick that I knew in my heart weren’t there no more.

I was a gal.

And something was sucking on my earlobe, tickling me. And — oh, Lord — it felt good. Something else was kissing its way down my throat. My body started t’feel warm and tingly — good tingly — all over. I couldn’t see it, but something was rubbing my new tits, now, playing with my nipples. I liked it. I liked it a lot, and I pushed out my chest, so whatever it was could do more.

It felt so good, that I couldn’t help but sigh ‘n’ moan. There was invisible hands all over my body, rubbing my tits, squeezing my ass, plucking at my new pussy. It got better ‘n’ better, and I was shivering and shaking from the way I was feeling.

Then, all of a sudden, something big started poking at my pussy. I was so wet down there that it slid in easy. I felt a little pain. I weren’t a virgin no more. But then that prick started moving in and out and in and out. I was trembling. My hips was rocking back ‘n’ forth to the rhythm of whatever was fucking me. I felt so lightheaded that I wanted to hold onto something. to anchor myself down. I felt so good, I was afraid I was just gonna float away.

My head was spinning. I saw my old self, Clarence Parker, standing there at attention in his army uniform. He smiled at me and waved goodbye. Then he just faded away. All the color drained outta him. He got so I could see through him. Then, he was gone.

And it didn’t bother me, ‘cause that was Clarence Parker, and I wasn’t him no more. It almost felt like I never was him. I was… Clarice Parker now, and I was horny. I couldn’t wait t’get another man in me. Mick O’Bannon and Sam Fox was still standing there. Mmmm, I never knew how handsome and male they both was till that moment.

I was always a little partial t’red hair, so I picked Mick. I walked over t’him, swiveling my hips t’show how ready I was t’fuck him. He looked so scared that I had t’giggle, but that fear went away quick enough when I put my arms around him and shoved my tongue into his mouth. He managed to get his arms around me, and I could feel his big, rock hard man meat pushing against my new cunny.

“Enough, Clarice,” the Madame said in a firm voice. I pouted and let go of Mick. I saw the door open, and I walked towards it. I swiveled my hips as I walked, trying t’give Mick one last, sweet memory, even if I knew that Michele’d be joining me in the other place beyond that door in a few minutes.

She did, giggling and twisting them bright red curls o’hers. And not too long after that, Samantha Fox came in, a tiny, blue-eyed blonde with the biggest tits — for her size — of any of us.

“Welcome to your new lives,” Madame deLancie told us. “You will be working for me, pleasing our many male guests for… a long time.” She gave us all a sly smile. “And these guests come here for pleasure, not for mystery. “

The nigra woman continued. “That being so, you can’t tell nobody you meets here who you was or how you got t’be the way you is now.”

A bell rang three times. “And speaking of guests,” deLancie interrupted, “here are some now.”

The nigra opened a door. I could see a city street, gaslights blazing bright, and carriages and people going by. Three men in suits came in, and the door shut behind them.

“My ladies,” the Madame told ‘em, “have been awaiting you. Select your partners and go to.”

We shoulda been scared, running for the door or screaming for help. We wasn’t. We was just hornier than hoot owls. We smiled. Michele and Thelma giggled. We stood there, posing, hoping that we’d get picked.

That’s what I was hoping, and, sure enough, one man, a tall fellah with gray hair, come over and took my hand. I giggled and kissed him on the cheek. Madame deLancie smiled. “Clarice will show you the way.”

And I did. All of a sudden, I was leading him down a hall to what I knew was my room. This very room, and it was done up just like it is now. He told me to undress him, and I did, stopping to kiss him all the while. He sat on the bed, his pecker pointing up at the ceiling, while I shucked off what I was wearing. And then we — well, you know what we done. You done it with me yourself, twice, you old goat.

* * * * *

Every day was like that, men and fucking and more men and more fucking. I don’t know how long it’s been. Me and Belinda and the rest don’t talk about how we got here, and we sure don’t talk about getting free. We just — giggle — enjoy it too much.

“I am sure that you do, Clarice,” Madame deLancie was suddenly standing in the center of the room. “And yet, you have somehow disobeyed me.” She made a gesture and Clarice and the guest found themselves unable to move.

The Madame studied the guest closely for several minutes. “Or, perhaps, you did not. This gentleman did not ask you who you were, or how you came to be employed in this place. No, he asked if you had ever heard of your former self, and if you had any idea where he might be. Those are very different questions. What is more, you certainly did not meet him here. You knew him long years before you joined my establishment.”

“Y-Yes, Madame,” Clarice answered nervously, and managing to do a curtsey, as she spoke.

The other woman thought for a moment. “No, you have not disobeyed me, but, nonetheless, you have told this gentleman far more than he should know. I cannot allow anyone who knows so much about me — and you — cannot be allowed to leave.” She chuckled. “And so, he will be successful… in a way. He will find the Clarence Parker he had sought. And he will join him.”

She gestured at the man. In his eagerness to have Clarice, he had left on his shirt, merely unbuttoned it. The two halves of the shirt flowed together, merging into one piece as the buttons disappeared. The sleeves faded away, as the starched cotton of the shirt became a delicate silk. The shirt grew longer, flowing down past his hips, his knees, stopping only a little above his ankles. The collar widened and widened. Soon, it was down to his pectoral muscles, with only two thin strips of lace going up and over his shoulders.

What had been a man’s shirt was now a silky, lace-trimmed woman’s nightgown.

As the man began to shrink, the gray vanishing from his hair, Clarice sighed. She know only too well what was going to happen to the man she knew so well, and whom she had betrayed.

“Do not feel sad, Clarice. This man will soon share the life that you have come to know and to love. You told him this yourself just minutes ago. The two of you will, of course, have your own… callers, but there will be times when, for enough money, you will work together to please a guest. And, as twin sisters, you shall be far closer than you ever were as father and son.”