Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: nostrumo@nienor.in-berlin.de
Subject: TG: Ceridwen's Cloak
Date: 4 Nov 1995 01:56:56 +0100

			   Ceridwen's Cloak

	 The cool darkness folded around him as he worked, held back
only by his penlight. Gently, ever so gently, he eased the painting in
his hands onto its place on the wall. Even to his trained eye, the
portrait on the wall was an almost flawless copy of the now frameless
original, which was now safely and silently zippered into the thin
portfolio case sitting at his side. Quickly and quietly he picked up
the few remaining tools of his craft lying at his feet on the cold
museum floor, and packed them away into the various pouches of his
knapsack. Then, with even more care than with the painting, he removed
the mirrored arrays he had precisely set in place to redirect the
lasers guarding the portrait. He folded them up and placed them too in
the knapsack, next to the hair spray and electronic goggles he had
used to detect the beams of light. A little relieved that his plan so
far was working flawlessly, he picked up his equipment and treasure,
and slid into the shadows like a wraith in the night.

	He soon reached the still video camera he had had to fool. He
carefully slid out the small folding stool he had hid under the
brochure stand here, and putting it in place, stood on it. In the
blink of an eye, he had silently removed the small wire frame he had
hung earlier in front of the camera lens, while simultaneously
disconnecting and reconnecting the video feed cable. The frame still
held the photo that he had taken of the dimly lit deserted gallery
corridor. With the apparatus in place, he had been able to work
undetected under the camera's watchful eye. Folding the stool, and
placing it and the apparatus in his pack, he slipped on to his escape
route.

	He was less than a thousand yards away from freedom when he
first heard the clumsy idiot. He silently winced as he now saw the
huge bulk of a man, far too large and clumsy to be a real thief, as he
made his way through one of the exhibits. The `bull in the china shop'
tried his best, mostly unsuccessfully, not to jostle the numerous
pieces on display, all the while remaining in plain view of the camera
silently watching overhead. Still safe in the shadows, the portrait-
thief knew the rank amateur was going to trip an alarm or alert the
guards if he hadn't already. Soundlessly, lowering the knapsack off
his shoulder and setting the portrait down, he stalked noiselessly
towards to exhibit and the one-man Stooge. Pausing behind one of the
columns supporting the second floor, he watched the large man place a
pair of objects into what looked to be a large cloth bag. The hulk
whistled audibly in relief and turned around just in time to catch the
force of the stun gun discharge in his gut.

	His arms straining with the effort, he lowered the still
twitching ox onto the floor as quietly as possible. Originally
intended as a last resort against a guard, the stun gun was quickly
slipped into a pocket as quickly as he had produced it. He didn't feel
a bit of remorse for having nearly drained the battery of the device
into the lummox. Picking up the big man's sack, then retrieving his
own two, he made his way toward to the way out, still keeping to the
shadows but now hurrying as fast as he could.

	After having removed the duct tape from the locking latch on
the bar mechanism, he closed the emergency exit door without a sound.
He hated to leave any trace behind, but the foil strips he had glued
in place couldn't be removed with the door open without breaking the
connection on one of the door switches and triggering the alarm; and
with the door closed, it was impossible to remove them. Besides, he
should be long gone when the switch was discovered, or would normally
be before that idiot screwed things up. Inhaling the chilly night air,
he wondered what extra he had picked up from the moron that nearly got
him caught. But before he could check out his extra package and figure
out if it could be fenced, he spotted the slow moving headlights of
the security pickup as it rounded the corner toward him. He shoved
his thoughts aside, and quickly ducked into a nearby clump of bushes.
After the vehicle had slowly passed, he stealthily made his was from
one clump of landscaping to another. It wasn't until he had reached
the `borrowed' brown Fairmont that he started to breathe a little
easier.

				* * *

	As he watched the last fifteen minutes of the Letterman show
that he had timer-recorded earlier, he mentally reviewed his steps
from the museum to home. After sealing the painting and portfolio case
in the prepared express delivery envelope, he dropped it in the night
depository chute at the shipping office. He then returned the
weathered old Ford to the apartment complex where its owner resided;
he managed to park it in the same space it was in earlier that evening
- the old man would never even know it had been out without him this
evening. He changed out of his black thief's outfit in the car,
donning jeans and a sweatshirt, then retrieved his ten-speed ATB from
its hiding place in the fenced-in dumpster area. He pedaled silently
into the night, taking care not to be followed home on the seven mile
stretch. He arrived home at his apartment above the old movie theater
in the now deserted but still respectable part of old downtown. Fairly
confident in his caution, he felt he now could relax and examine the
extra bundle he had brought home.

	In the other thief's bag were a what appeared to be a large
hooded robe and small ornate wooden box. The robe appeared to sized
for someone a little larger than he, and was made of a deep purple
material - velvet? with a decorated band running up the edges of both
front flaps and around the front edge of the hood. It was ankle length
and the waist sash had the same ornate band running its entire length.
Both bands were gold, possibly gilded, and were interwoven in black
with intricate designs. It smelled and felt new and fresh, not old and
musty like a preserved piece of ancient clothing would; it must have
been made for the museum as a replica of the period's style. The box,
however, was definitely old, but very well preserved and it had very
similar symbols to the cloak etched into its surface. It opened
noiselessly, the lid flipping smoothly open and back, to reveal what
appeared to be ivory tiles. Arranged in five rows of four, the tiles
(a bit larger than the length and width of a standard domino, and half
as thick) stood on end; each was recessed about half-way into the
velvet lined interior. Pulling one out for a better look, he noticed
more of the same type of inscriptions on one side of the tile, while
the other side was completely blank. Even considering the high level
of workmanship on the items, he couldn't believe they would be worth
breaking into a well-guarded museum.

	Intrigued with the `loot', he carried the box, tile, and
garment into the bathroom light. In the better light, he compared the
designs on the robe with the symbols on the back of the tile. He must
have been more tired than he thought, because the intricate patterns
began to swim a little before his eyes, and then he felt suddenly
light-headed. Half-falling, he sat down the toilet seat, rubbing his
temple while blinking and squinting to clear his vision and head. When
he looked at the cloth again, he noticed a section of the band where
the pattern exactly matched part of the design on the back of the
tile. His fingers found a delicate incision in the garment that gave
way to reveal a tile-sized pocket about where the middle of the
wearer's chest would be. He tested a sudden idea by sliding the tile
into the pouch, and it was a perfect fit; strange though, once inside
the pouch, he couldn't have spotted its opening unless he was looking
exactly for it and directly at it.

	A fresh wave of dizziness assaulted him again, harder and
faster than the last, and he fell off the throne, onto the floor where
he almost bashed in his forehead. After about a minute of the bathroom
spinning wickedly around him, he felt confident enough in his legs to
stand up. Slowly and shakily, he got to his feet, hoping that the
towel bar that his white-knuckled hands clung to would hold.

	Looking in the mirror confirmed some of what he thought and
felt. His 5'10" lean but well-toned frame slumped heavily as he
scratched his hairy stomach. His green, and now bloodshot eyes, were
framed round by darkened lids and the humble beginnings of crow's feet
in his narrow, angular face. His tired fingers rubbed his tired and
stubbled chin - need a shave already, he thought to himself - and then
moved on to muss up his brown hair; even his hair felt tired. He felt
too exhausted after such a light job, and feared he might be coming
down the flu or something. He decided to worry about in the morning;
for now, it was a quick shower and then bed. Tossing the robe, cloak,
or whatever on the top of the toilet tank, he stripped off his
clothes, and climbed in the shower.

				* * *

	As he toweled himself off, he felt more like his old self.
Stepping into his boxers and pulling them up, he noticed the goose
bumps standing up on his arms and legs. He had forgotten how cool it
was, and feeling the chill and shuddering, realized he had left the
bathroom door open. He shivered again, and decided he needed a cup of
decaf before he fell asleep. Throwing on the robe to keep from warm
and tying the sash around his waist, he headed toward the door. He had
just flipped off the light, and stepped through the door when he
tripped and fell.

	Even in his presently weakened condition he managed to catch
himself, landing on the palms of his hands. He felt the sharp pain in
his knee as it smashed on the floor. Okay, he figured he would just
crawl onto the couch and try not to die in his sleep. He rolled over
onto his back, propped himself up on his elbows, and looked down at
his feet to see what had tripped him. In the flickering light of the
TV, he could see that his feet had somehow gotten tangled up in the
robe. After Kicking gently, then not so gently, at the robe to no
avail, he sat up fully to extricate himself. The bottom end of the
garment had apparently sealed itself closed, and then he noticed that
the sleeves on the garment had done the same thing. He was fumbling
with the newly closed sleeves as the bottom half of the robe began
splitting up the middle; the garment was beginning to resemble an
ornate pair of child's pajamas with the sewn-in feet. Panic started to
set as the entire garment quickly began contracting body-wide. Somehow
the hood had gotten over his head; genuine fear set in as the front
opening irised smaller and smaller. He started to yell too late as it
too sealed closed over his face.

	His rational mind screamed as it tried in vain to grasp what
was happening. Deprived of his eyesight, his other senses licked into
overdrive as a flood of adrenaline hit the bloodstream of his cocooned
body. He could smell something strangely familiar and reassuring in
the fabric pressing tight over his nose; yet how could he still be
breathing? He could hear the roar of the blood pounding in his ears,
and very close, the disturbing sounds of popping and stretching. And
there was the sensation of the cloth pressing in all around him, like
he would have imagined being crushed at the bottom of the ocean under
tons of water. Even more unnerving was the feeling of his bones and
tissues not just being compressed, but impossibly and fluidly shifting
and rearranging. Perhaps it was most unsettling that with all the
sensations running through him, there was a complete lack of pain. He
spasmed and writhed on the carpeted floor for a small eternity.
Finally, almost jarringly, the sensations stopped.

				* * *

	He must have passed out; he awoke gently, his eyes lazily and
sleepily half-opening. He started to sit up too quickly, and both the
sudden ache of very tired muscles and joints and another wave of
dizziness caused him to flop back down with an audible groan. His eyes
didn't seem to want to focus, and he didn't feel like fighting them,
so he let them close again. He took a deep relaxing breath of the cool
apartment air and felt the chill on his skin. He felt like he had been
hit with a severe flu and his worst hangover at the same time. A piece
of his mind toyed absently with something odd about the sound of that
last groan, and he reached up to rub his jaw. He felt the smooth skin
under unusually sensitive fingertips and absently brushed away a lock
of hair resting against his chin. Small alarms went off in the back of
his mind, but he failed to connect with it in his current state. He
arched, then stretched his tired back, and massaged the muscles there
with one hand while he scratched his smooth stomach with the other.
That warning sense went off again, but the pieces didn't fall together
until he sleepily stretched his arms out in front of his chest, and
his upper arms rubbed against a soft and firm something sitting on his
chest that wasn't there before. A fresh rush of adrenaline pumped
through him as he sat bolt upright with eyes wide open. He looked
down, long hair falling forward on both sides of his peripheral
vision, and the shock hit him full force. He crawled into the
bathroom, closed his eyes, and carefully stood up. Silently mouthing a
prayer, promising to reform if this was all just a dream, he
cautiously opened his eyes.

	Startlingly, his reflection in the mirror was no longer his
own. It now belonged to an incredible vision of a woman looking
directly back at him. She (he?) was about half a foot shorter and at
least ten years younger than he (she?) used to be. Like his own, her
body was firm and trim, but now both pleasantly soft and gracefully
curved. Her curly dark brunette hair was shoulder length, and framed a
classically beautiful face with high cheekbones, clear blue eyes,
perfectly pert nose, and full tender lips. Her arms, shorter and
slimmer than his, and small shoulders matched perfectly with her long
graceful legs and rounded hips. Her exposed breasts were full and just
right for her frame, and goose bumps stood lightly on their surface.
Even his once familiar boxers had conveniently resized themselves to
fit her form. He watched as her slim manicured hand moved under his
control to stretch the waistband, and he lowered he eyes to peek
inside. He discovered the flat trim genital hair of her lightly moist
vagina. He looked up, seeing through her eyes one of the best looking
women he had ever seen, and certainly the best one ever in this
apartment. If he were still in his own body, he would have a rock-hard
erection; instead he felt a strangely pleasant tightening and
moistening in her - His! - crotch.

	He stood there, his mind desperately fighting the acceptance
of the impossible evidence standing reflected before his eyes. The
only thought his frantic mind could latch onto through the chaos in
his head was that in now probably less than eight hours he had to go
pick up the payment for the job he had completed hours ago. "Damn" was
all his soft and higher pitched feminine voice could whisper. Then his
brain decided it needed a breath of fresh air, and his new body opted
for a much needed rest on the carpeted floor of his bathroom.