v1 CHAPTER FIFTEEN: (18+) In which bodily destiny continues to take its own course, with a little help from friends and toys.

Father John came by later that afternoon with a bag of groceries. Michael was sitting on the small couch in their hospital room, reading. John smiled when he saw him. "Hey there," he said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Michael replied, his voice a little faint. "Feeling almost back to... normal? Susan’s quite a bit better too…we had some, ah, up and coming forms of therapy. And yourself? How is your mother?"

Father John chuckled. "She's okay—not great. She doesn't like it here in NYC much; she misses her friends and family back in Atlanta. But we're getting along. We've been talking about going back home." He set the bag down and took a seat beside Michael. "So the two of you are what… exorcists on patrol, now?"

Michael nodded. "Yes. I suppose so." He looked over at Father John. "Have you heard anything from the Vatican yet?"

Father John shook his head. "Not yet. Monsignor Albert hasn't called back, either."

Michael frowned. "That's odd. Maybe they're just busy… but in these times, I worry.”

Susan knocked and opened the door. She’d changed back into the long woolen dress she’d been wearing for their trip to Father Boudreau’s neighborhood. “Hey, Father John. Thanks for coming by again.” Susan had unwrapped her bandages—was she supposed to do that on her own?—and the huge gash on her forehead, where the golem had struck her with a brick, was nearly gone. She saw Michael staring and shrugged. “I guess that uh… ointment that nice nurse ordered us to apply earlier… really helped me out too?”

Michael coughed. “Ah, yeah. I was telling Father John about that kind nurse and the new therapy she provided for us.” John quirked an eyebrow, but if he had any suspicion that the two of them were referring to Susan topping Michael in submission to a succubus, he didn’t show it. Instead, he put his foot up on a chair and leaned forward on his knee.

“So… tell me something, and please understand I’m asking out of concern. You two are, what… an exorcism team for the archdiocese now? I don’t mean to question your qualifications, but when your new assignment puts you in the hospital…” he spread his hands helplessly, clearly worried.

Michael chuckled. "I'm not sure I like that description of myself—exorcist?—bur we’re at least investigating on the Church’s behalf. If we’re dealing with demonic possession, it’s as something more like a volunteer fire brigade. There’s nobody else, apparently." He glanced over at Susan. "But our research expert is top-notch, I must say."

Father John nodded. "If you can't find help elsewhere; well, you've got to do what you have to do." He smiled. "I admire your dedication. But I wish you would be more careful. New York has gotten a lot more dangerous, but that doesn't mean we're trained to handle any of it."

"Thank you," Michael said. "And thank you for checking on us.”

“Are you signing yourself out of the hospital?” asked Father John. “Well enough to go home?”

Susan shrugged. “Just have to go get a checkup, and then I think I need to sleep in my own bed. Michael… will you be all right tonight?”

“Yes,” said Michael. “Father John and I can get back to the parish just fine. Susan… take care. And if you need anything.”

She gave him a smile lingering somewhere between wan and warm, a mixed feeling he understood too well. “I know where to find you. No bad dreams tonight, okay?” And Michael knew what she meant this time, too: don’t tangle with that succubus in your sleep, not again.

“No bad dreams.”

***

John had taken off his collar and was sitting on the rectory couch, watching TV—a baseball game; maybe the Yankees were playing, John was a huge fan—while drinking a bottle of beer. Michael didn't like the taste of beer but enjoyed the cool bite of the alcohol. He sat down beside John and opened his own bottle. "I'm sorry you're stuck here," he said. “I could have taken care of the repairs, but with everything else going on…”

John smirked. “Everything else, like getting the shit beat out of you? C’mon, Michael. I’m not going to leave you to clean up everything while I hang out at home. Besides, I start to burn out on my mom after several days. There’s a reason my stuff is in the spare room.” He gestured toward the door; there was a small guest bedroom next to the parlor. "If you want to go to bed early or something, don’t worry on my account. I know my way around by now."

"I'd like that," said Michael. He stood up and stretched. "Not sure how long it'll take me to get my strength back."

John grunted. "That's what you keep saying—strength—but you haven't done much work lately. Frankly I don't know if the parish should expect you to."

Michael didn't say anything. John was right, of course. Even though he hadn't fully discussed it with John, Michael had been forced to give up a lot of his duties as a priest at St. Andrew’s. He’d asked John to give this week’s sermon, and now to deal with the storm damage. He’d been spending more time cooped up doing research with Susan, and more time alone or away from the parish. It was all for reasons obvious to him but must seem negligent to anyone else.

John spoke up. “I’m sorry. Don’t misunderstand, that wasn’t meant as a criticism. Just that it’s obviously been a lot lately, ever since you reported demonic activity to the archdiocese. I’ve had a feeling that… there’s a lot on your plate.”

Michael sighed; he couldn't deny it. "Yes. I can’t deny that—and I haven’t been eating properly. Or sleeping enough. As usual, ever since you joined the parish, I find myself leaning on you for a tremendous amount of help."

John gave him a concerned look. "I’m not just a hard worker. You can tell me if you need to talk, Michael. Whatever it is, I'm here."

Michael felt his eyes welling up with tears. “Thank you, John. That’s so kind, but…” There was too much he couldn’t say. He couldn’t tell this strong, gentle colleague that it was more than just job stress, that a succubus was taking over his mind and body, consuming his energy and time with fantasy and compulsive sex. That he'd become an unwitting receptacle for her sexual energy; that she was trying to take him over completely.

That he might be losing his mind and soul.

Michael got up. "Thanks again for helping me out. I'll try to get back to work tomorrow." He started to walk out of the parlor.

John called out to him. "Michael! What's wrong?"

Michael turned. "Nothing. I'll see you tomorrow."

***

Michael leaned back in bed, closing his eyes—but unable falling asleep. He’d shut his eyes because his gaze kept drifting to the drawer where he’d hidden the vibrator. It was like a magnet drawing him, and he felt too much trepidation to take Susan’s suggestion to use it for release. He was afraid of what could happen with yet another surge of sexual energy; he didn't want to be taken more fully by Yael.

His thoughts drifted back to John, and the younger priest’s genuine, brotherly concern. Michael tried to imagine what it must have been like for John, being raised in a strict Catholic home, working as a counselor and social worker. How hard it must have been for him to break from the mold of his father and uncles, all union railway workers, and decide to become a priest. Yet he'd done so—and become a beloved fixture of St. Andrew's.

Michael thought of John's kindness and how much he liked him. So why was he fighting the urge to tell him about Yael? The burden of knowledge? Or the shame of his changing body? His undeniable, but highly unprofessional, attraction to the man? Whatever it was, it gave him a feeling of “don’t let him be sucked in too, please.” He couldn’t keep thinking about John, so his attention drifted to the vibrator, and the uncomplicated way it might be able to address his growing physical need. Without thoughts of John, Susan, or anyone.

Michael pictured himself naked, the vibrator poised on his clitoris. He imagined it pressing down; he imagined the pressure building up inside him like a rising wave. And with those thoughts, of course the feelings of need did start to grow. He pulled open the bedside table drawer and rifled through some papers.

There it was, nestled amongst his notes—a pink, curved length like a double-sized finger, with a bulbous tip and an odd, bell-shaped grip at the base. Michael put it on the bed, next to him, and closed his eyes again, resting his head on a pillow.

He stared at the ceiling, wondering what he should do. Wouldn't this be enough, just from thinking about it? He felt his body tense, but without any length of flesh to stiffen or lubricate itself between his legs. He ached; he reached down to stroke the expanse of skin between his testicles and below his clit. It was still there, something, his organs of pleasure. Still there. A very strange sensation; like an invisible hand touching him.

Michael groaned. He slid the vibrator between his legs and began to move it around. He started slow and easy; he had no intention of trying to make love to it. He simply wanted to feel it. It was smooth, soft, like a finger but without the warmth of a human hand. He began to press it harder and faster, curving his fingers around the vibrator. He tried to keep it still—but it kept moving, and that's when Michael realized that he was trying to push it in and out of himself.

His eyes flew open, and he quickly yanked the vibrator off his groin. What was this need? This hunger in his crotch, like he wanted to pierce his own flesh? Was there some part of him that had changed already, with the absence of his cock?

When Susan had pushed his fingers inside his ass and massaged his prostate, it has been unbelievably intense, erotically charged… but this was something else. He still felt it. Michael ran his fingers down his belly, across the throbbing ache of his clit, rubbing the hairless folds of his scrotum. So pleasant, so thrilling. His hips bucked.

Michael thought back to the times when he'd masturbated with his hands—the first time was in high school, when he didn't even know what he was doing. He remembered how his penis had swelled from just the touch of his fingertips, and how it felt like a long electric current running through his body. He had gripped it and stroked it by instinct.

This was different; he was cut off, somehow, from something he wanted to grab between his legs. He tried gripping his forearm, but then couldn’t stroke himself. Hesitantly, he reached for the vibrator again, where it sat on his stomach, and switched it on.

Michael felt a deep calmness overtake him. As he turned the dial, the vibrations grew more intense. They buzzed against his fingers and sent vibrations through his body, which he could feel all the way down to his clit, and below. He took his hand away from his groin so that he could control the vibration. He slowly pressed it into his pubic bone, feeling it glide along his skin. He rolled the vibrator down his body, avoiding his clit for now, and placed it at the smooth, vacant spot between his testicles.

The vibrator felt like a soothing, pleasing ripple. Not overwhelmingly intense as he had feared, but like an ever-expanding slow thrum of pleasure. As he pressed it against himself, he could feel his flesh expanding to fill the space—it was the same feeling as when he used to shave with a razor, pulling his cheeks, the feeling of skin stretching and relaxing under his fingertips.

He pulled it out and it slid easily across his body, leaving behind a trail of shaken, hairless warmth. Without the root of a cock, lacking a corpus spongiosum to engorge and fill the space, just a bundle of nerve endings radiating through his body from his clit, it was easy to push his scrotal folds into his pelvic cavity. Michael tried to keep the vibrator in place; he pushed it into him like a dildo.

It was hard to concentrate. Michael closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow. The sound of his own breath became louder, like an echo in his ears. He imagined the vibrator as a kind of hand. He moved it, stroking his scrotum from the insides. He could feel the flesh moving against the bones of his pelvis. His testicles were rolling around in there too. With a popping sensation, Michael felt something strange as his left testicle slid somewhere higher in his abdomen. Wait, thought Michael. Did his testicle just… ascend back into his body?

He looked down; the vibrator was still inside him, and the flesh of his groin was moving around, as if he were pressing the vibrator deeper inside. Was this some sort of reflex—this desire to be filled, to fuck? Michael reached down to pull the vibrator out, but instead of letting go, he instinctually began to push the tip of the vibrator deeper.

Michael pushed it harder. The weight of it pressed against him like a lover’s erection. It wasn't painful, but he didn't want to keep going. Or did he? He wanted to push it all the way in. He had to get it all the way in. Keeping it in place, he felt around for his testicle. There it was! Or was that his right testicle? He tried to hold it, but it slipped through his fingers as if sucked away, and “pop!” Another testicle was sliding up and back toward his belly button.

This is so wrong, thought Michael. His scrotum was strangely slippery; he could feel the wetness between his legs. And his testicles—they felt like they were being pulled inside by something anchored in his lower abdomen. Michael grabbed the vibrator with his hand and slowly pulled it out, then pushed it in again.

This time, he kept the vibrator in his hand and let his scrotum rest on the mattress. He pushed it in slowly, and felt his body give way. The folds of his scrotum were opening like the petals of a flower, blossoming to receive the vibrator. It felt so good, nestling in place. He rested the fingers of his left hand lightly on his clit, engorged, protruding and slippery with… was that sweat?

The folds of his body accepted the vibrator; it fit snugly between his thighs. Michael could feel his muscles flexing, stretching to take the vibrator. He was taking his body. He was fucking his body. His clit was throbbing.

As Michael touched it with his fingertips—he couldn't help but touch it—the thrumming of the vibrator seemed to grow stronger. He pushed it in, something parted, he felt his muscles grip the length of the vibrator. His right hand was slick, wet. What was that? He left the vibrator humming inside of him, rocking his body, and felt around with his hand. The bed was wet. Had he pissed himself, lost control? No, it wasn’t urine; it smelled like the softest leather.

Michael pulled his hand out from between his legs. The vibrator continued to rock inside of him. He looked down. The vibrator had stretched his scrotal folds inside of him. It was pulsing between his legs, impaling him, obscene. He could see the walls of his body holding the vibrator. He needed it deeper, more. He pushed the vibrator inside of him, to the hilt, felt a tearing sensation, painful but ecstatic at the same time.

Michael gasped; his body was convulsing. The sensation of the vibrator inside of him—of the vibrator fucking him—was like nothing he had ever felt before. Like a lover's caress, it moved and pulsed. The sensations were like waves of pleasure rolling over his body, from his head to his toes. He lay back on the bed and raised his hips, pumping the vibrator in and out of his body. His thighs and hands were slippery with his own wetness. He felt so full, so filled, so filled with life, with pleasure, with the promise of orgasm.

With each thrust of his hips, he could feel his testicles rising into his body. He had become one with his pleasure. There was no longer any distinction between his body and his mind: he was just doing it. His right hand fucking himself with the length of the vibrator, he reached out to tickle his clitoris with his left. With the slightest motion, his clit was alive; the flesh was swollen, pink, needy—and then, suddenly, it was ready to explode.

Michael could feel the tension building inside of him. He could feel the climax approaching, coming toward him like a freight train, coming closer and closer. What… what was he doing? Fucking himself, a vibrator inside of him, masturbating like a woman… the vibrator buzzed, his clit twitched, and then there was an explosion.

Another tearing sensation, a parting, a sliding. He screamed and cried out with joy. A flood of liquid rushed from his groin. He felt the warm wetness against his hand. Then the vibrator slipped from his grip. His body convulsed. His breath was ragged. He could feel his muscles tensing, tightening. There was no sensation like cum spurting through the length of a cock, just a spasm that rippled through his body.

When the feelings passed, Michael opened his eyes. He was lying on the bed; the vibrator had fallen from his hand, onto the bed. His body felt strange—tense, powerful, almost unbearably sensitive. His muscles were flexing, stretching, and his scrotum felt tight and round, hugging his abdomen.

Michael came to himself, although still dazed. What had happened? Had his body changed again? He turned off the vibrator and felt between his legs, carefully, still aware of how sensitive his unfamiliar organs were. His clit was still there, throbbing and raw, peeking from its small hood. Below that, something was… what was this? He had never felt anything like it. There were two ridges of soft skin between the base of his pelvis and the bump of his clitoris—folds of flesh instead of a scrotum, two pressed together like lips: a vulva! His mind was reeling. He thought back to what had happened: the sensation of the vibrator—inside of him—moving around inside of him. It had pulled him apart, vibrated his scrotum into a cleft.

Michael scrambled for the hand mirror he kept in the same bedside drawer, sat on the bed with his knees up and legs opened, and moved the mirror to show him what he looked like now, down there. With his fingers, and in his reflection, he found the folds of his new labia majora, the outer lips. They were thick, pink, like the flesh of a peach, slightly puffy, the outside sections of his scrotum having swelled and ripened.

Within, the two-part fold of his labia minora, pinker than his lips, delicately folded, a little wrinkled like his scrotal folds had been. These were his new pussy lips. His clit was peeking out from atop, and below that his urethra was now nestled inside the lips. He stroked the soft flesh of his vulva. His lips were slick; he could feel a wetness between them.

Then he remembered the sound—the buzzing of the vibrator. When the vibrator had been inside of him, he had felt so much pleasure, such an intense sensation of climax, and he had screamed. What if someone had heard him? The guest room John slept in while at the rectory was all the way down the hall, but… he bit his lip in anxiety. His door was closed. Was it thick enough? A pulsing from his vulva demanded his attention again.

Probing with one finger, he slipped it inside of his pussy. His finger slipped between the soft folds of his labia; they felt like velvet. Michael explored inside of himself, the warmth, the softness, the texture. He could feel his clit, and then he touched a hard ridge of flesh running below, and then he felt something moving beneath his finger. He could feel the slickness of his urethra.

His breathing became more rapid. What would happen if he slipped a second finger into his pussy? Would it open further? He felt so exposed—he didn't want anyone to see him like this. But why? What did it matter? He wanted to know what this meant. He needed to understand.

He removed his fingers from his pussy and began to rub his clit with two fingers; it was already swollen, aching. Michael couldn't hold back any longer, he pushed two fingers into his pussy, thrusting deeper and deeper until he was crouched over the bed, with his ass in the air and his newly widened hips pumping. A moment later he felt his orgasm coming.

With a cry he grabbed his clit with his fingers, squeezed it tight. His pussy was flooding. He screamed. He felt the warm liquid pouring from his pussy, felt it flowing down his thighs. He had never come like that before. This was something different. No refractory period; he could make himself come again and again. Two fingers had felt more satisfying, fuller than one… the thought came unbidden to him.

As his orgasm subsided, Michael took a moment to compose himself. He sat on the bed, naked, with his legs splayed apart. He thought about what had just happened—what had changed in him. What would happen next? Could he continue? Should he? He needed to be cautious.

He pulled his legs back and covered his pussy with his hands. He had never seen a woman's pussy like this, and he had no idea what one should look like. He barely remembered high school anatomy, and it wasn’t something he’d ever bent much of his interest or focus towards, either sexually, spiritually or vocationally.

When he pulled his hand away from his pussy, he saw a thick strand of fluid hanging between his legs. He reached down, wiped the sticky fluid from between his labia; it was clear and transparent. He rubbed the liquid between his fingers: it was slippery, but not slimy. He put the damp finger to his lips. It tasted sweet and musky. Was this how women tasted? Or succubae?

He stood up and walked to the bathroom. He cleaned his vulva with a wet washcloth, scrubbed his labia, wiping away the remaining traces of fluid. He looked at himself in the mirror—a man, like he always was, but with smooth hairless skin, and small breasts that could still pass for flabby pectorals if they hadn’t been tipped with fat, feminine nipples. Then he saw a thick line of wetness running from his new sex, down his inner thigh.

Michael had an urge to touch his clit again; he could feel it throbbing between his legs. He walked back to the bedroom and picked up his vibrator. He turned it on, walked back into the bathroom.

As Michael moved the vibrator against his clit, his body felt strange. His muscles were tense and shivering; he felt like he was moving underwater. As the vibrator moved along the top of his pussy, he could feel the bottom part inside of him, rubbing against his clit. When he pushed it against his clit, it throbbed with sensation, like a tiny cock, nudging at its hood. He could keep going. He didn’t feel sore, or tired; his body wanted more, insatiable.

When he turned the vibrator off, he could hear his heart pounding in his chest—so loud. His breathing was ragged. He felt a need to touch his clit—to press the vibrator against it again.

He needed to stop.

Michael cleaned the vibrator carefully and put it back in the drawer.