v1 CHAPTER SIXTEEN: (18+) In which fantasies are confronted, scented and ultimately sublimated

In his dreams, Michael vented incoherent frustrations at Yael. "You've taken it all away now! You changed me again, tricked me! Why can’t you go back to Hell where you belong?"

The succubus clucked her sinuous tongue and shook her head. "Not tricked, Michael," she said. "I never tricked you." She opened her hand and showed him a small black feather; he looked at the feather and then at her other hand, which was empty. "Behold, the feather of my heart. Proof of my honesty, as in ancient times." She smiled and patted him on the cheek.

"This time you did it all yourself. There was no demonic energy present. Did you feel any?"

Michael knew, even in the midst of dreaming, that she was right. Nothing demonic, only his own body, straining, yearning, releasing. "There was... there was sexual energy! And my... my body inverted itself, I have an… orifice! A vagina!"

"Your very own pussy? A girl’s private chamber? How wonderful! Does it look like mine? Does it taste sweet?"

Michael felt himself flush with embarrassment. He had tasted his own juices—was that perverse?

Yael continued, her voice melodic and full of humor. "What you call sexual energy is the power of exchange, the desire between people. When you touched yourself, used that cunning device, the energy involved was that of your own body. Your body changed because of what you are already on the way to becoming. Your cock had already become like mine, concentrated and powerful." She squatted and ran her fingers down between her legs, stroking herself, “Thus, the rest of the sweet, secret places of your body wanted to burrow and fold and open... just like mine."

The succubus lifted one blood-red leg high in the air, grabbing an ankle in her hand and displaying the throbbing wet lips of her pussy. They were like the rest of her: a shade of deep burgundy, powerful, sexual and terrifying. "You wanted it. Your body wanted it. And you will want more."

Michael realized that he had been lightly brushing his own clit through his pajamas; he stopped doing it. He looked at Yael's eyes—those bright, unblinking, demonic eyes. She was beautiful, in a disturbing way, the fullness of her red lips almost too entrancing to steer his gaze from. She licked them slowly. "Shall I show you now, what you desire? Shall we gaze into your future again, Michael?"

Michael felt himself nodding, without conscious thought. Yael smiled and began to dance. She was like smoke or shadow or the flickering image of an old movie. The light from the streetlights outside the windows shimmered on the walls and ceiling and on the silhouetted form of the succubus. She moved sinuously around him. Then she pointed to the other side of the room. There, on his bed, were two figures, a vision of a couple locked in an embrace.

The man was naked; the woman wore a thin, ribbed dress of stretchy fabric. His hands were under her dress—the hem had ridden up, exposing her rounded thighs. Their faces were shrouded in the darkness of the moonlit room, but their bodies pressed urgently against each other. Yael smiled. "They are very close to making love. Would you like to watch them?"

"No!" Yet he could not avert his gaze.

Yael laughed. "Let's watch." The woman was kneeling on the bed, her ass raised in the air. The man came to kneel behind her, gripping her hips. His face was in shadow, but as he leaned forward Michael could recognize the jaw, the hair: it was Father John.

A glimmer of movement flashed in the dark and then a shape pressed between the woman's legs. Michael looked closer and saw the swollen tip of Father John's cock! He felt his stomach twist into knots, and an ache between his legs. Yael's hand stroked the front of his abdomen, snaked lower. "Look," she said. The woman's hips jerked. Her back arched, and she moaned in pleasure. Her voice was somehow familiar.

"It's—it's—" Michael couldn't say the word.

"Yes," Yael whispered. "She's getting fucked by Father John. She's coming for him; she's going to be his woman. And soon she will be like me: another succubus, a sister…" The woman pushed her hips back, sliding onto the man's cock with a soft cry. "We will be together, inseparable."

Father John groaned. His hips thrust forward, and his cock disappeared inside her cunt again. The woman screamed, her head thrown back. Father John pulled out, then slid back into her. "That's it," Yael breathed. "Let her have it." Father John began to pump in and out of the woman. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh filled the room.

Michael could feel his body responding in arousal. His clit throbbed under Yael's fingers. He wanted to look away in shame, but he couldn't. Father John was thrusting faster and harder now. The woman thrashed and screamed, her hair tossing back and forth. She lifted her head up, and Michael could see her face. Like Yael’s, framed by curly locks of hair, with cute, delicate features, but at the same time like his own, sharper, idiosyncratic face. Like his twin sister, but also like Yael. Becoming one, joining. Her expression was knowing, sly, worldly.

The man behind her—Father John—suddenly let go of the woman's hips. He came around her front side, grabbed the back of her head and forced it down onto his cock. The woman cried out again, this time in discomfort. Father John started pumping her face, hard. She writhed beneath him, her hands clawing at the bedspread.

Yael's voice cut through the room: "This is what we do, Michael. We are like this, we love like this, we fuck like this."

"No," Michael said, pushing her hand away. "No!" He tried to stand up, but she held him in place, gripping him tightly, forcing him to watch. The scene kept changing. Father John was fucking the woman furiously from behind again now, pounding her ass into the mattress as she lay prone. Michael felt tears fill his eyes. His cunt spasmed in sympathetic pleasure. He watched as the woman's body shuddered and shook. Her head was still down on the bed. Her mouth opened and closed as she gasped for air. Her pussy squeezed and massaged the man's cock.

Father John was groaning too; the sound of it—the sound of pleasure—filled the room. Yael stroked Michael's cheek. "Look how she takes his cock," she whispered. "She loves it. And so will you. We will be like this forever."

Father John groaned, louder than ever. His cock swelled inside the woman. Then he let out a long moan, his head thrown back. He pumped harder and faster into the woman, until finally he exploded into her body. He jerked his hips and spurted cum deep inside, then pulled his softening cock from inside her. The woman lay there gasping for breath; her face was red and covered in sweat. “Yes,” he heard her say, with a long sigh.

"Come," Yael commanded. She pulled Michael by the arm. He stumbled over to her. She led him back towards the bed. Father John had rolled off the woman's body and was lying on his side next to her. The two figures dissipated into silvery mist, Father John and the woman's images blurring into nothingness. Yael lay down and cradled Michael in her arms.

"Shush, my sweet. My little one, my growing nest. It is time to rest, and sleep. Your body has more to do, on the morrow." She held him close; he could feel the warmth of her breasts against his chest, her cunt against his thigh, so close to his own moist pussy. "Let's not fight, sister. You're so far on the journey already. We can't turn back now."

She kissed the side of his head, almost chastely. Then she wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled him closer—swallowing his form into her own like a Venus flytrap.

***

Michael awoke with a start and sat up quickly. He felt like he had been drugged or hypnotized. He was disoriented. Why was he here? How did he get here? He looked around—it was only his own bedroom. The covers were thrown off, the sheets tangled and soaked in sweat, as they had been so often recently. Yael was gone, vanished like yet another illusion; the bed was empty.

He stood up, feeling unsteady on his feet. He grabbed onto the wall and braced himself. His legs felt wobbly as strings as he stumbled across the floor, trying to find something else to lean on. He put a hand on the frame of his wardrobe and looked down at his body in the reflection. He felt stranger than ever; hairless, still out of shape, with wide hips and small breasts. There, between his legs, like an afterthought—his vulva, his clit, his vagina. He couldn't see them from this angle, but his lack of pubic hair revealed their outlines clearly if he bent forward.

The whole package considered, he looked something like a woman now. A naked, pudgy woman with a man's face, balding head and a beard, gangly limbs... what kind of woman looked like this? The answer came to him with sudden clarity: no woman at all, but perhaps a transgender man. Since he still knew himself to be Father Michael, that was the closest situation to his own. He was a "man trapped inside a woman's body;" physically female but psychologically male. Was that right?

His thoughts, his reactions, kept changing until he no longer knew himself. Did he hate this body and what it was becoming? Yael’s promise had changed in nature: now she tantalized with the idea of becoming beautiful. But Michael didn’t want beauty, not in that way. Did he?

Michael reached down and touched the wet spot between his thighs where he had masturbated in dreams. There was a strange tingling sensation there now too, as if someone had rubbed him with a feather. What was going on? Was Yael stimulating him further? Or were these just aftershocks of the erotic dream Yael had forced on him? Whatever it was, the effect made him shudder involuntarily and feel even more aroused than before.

He put a robe on, shrouding his curvaceous hips, opened the door to his bedroom, and stepped out into the hallway. The rectory seemed quiet and empty in the early morning light. He walked slowly along the hall, peeking into each room he passed. Was Father John still here? Had he heard anything last night, the screams of joy and pleasure as Michael had... he shuddered to think of it... pressed at his own scrotum, fucked it until it collapsed into a vulva, a vagina?

Michael knocked gently on the priest's door. No one answered.

"Father John?" he called softly.

There was no reply; but when he pushed open the door, Michael saw a pile of clothes neatly folded on the desk, next to Father John's computer. The room smelled like a freshly showered man: a masculine scent mixed with soap, shampoo, and faint whiffs of cologne—but not any scent or brand he could recognize. It was something else. Something unique to Father John.

Michael sat down at his desk. He felt very nervous suddenly. What if Father John hadn't left yet? What if he caught Michael looking through his things? For that matter, why was he in here at all? He felt a needling curiosity. Did he have some sort of voyeuristic streak?

He picked up the stack of clothing and examined each item carefully: shirts, slacks, boxers, socks, underwear. He sniffed them, trying to identify which was Father John's smell by its intensity and character. Nothing seemed familiar until he got to the bottom of the pile where he found two pairs of boxer briefs—one black with blue stripes and the other red with white polka dots. Those were definitely Father John's, by style and scent.

Michael lifted them to his nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the man's musky scent. This time he recognized all the individual odors: leather and spice, sweat and semen, musk and saltwater. He felt his new vulva swell with arousal; it was like nothing he'd ever done before. Forbidden, pleasurable in its intensity: sniffing the scent of a man’s cock and balls.

He shook his head to clear it. What was he doing? He was acting like... like Yael! Wanton and reveling in taboo, like the demoness who had possessed him, transformed him, turned him into her personal plaything. He didn't know how to stop himself from being attracted to Father John—or Susan, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe these feelings kept overwhelming him because he wasn't truly human anymore. Perhaps he had become something more than human, or something less than human.

Michael thought to focus on something else to stop his mind from constantly straying to sex. He returned to his room, showered, trimmed his beard and shaved his stubble, going through every ordinary ritual he could think of, attempting to treat the condition of his body like an unfortunate and temporary malady.

Out of necessity, he pulled on the compression bra and shirt Susan had bought for him, then a pair of his own briefs, now strangely ill-fitting. They were baggy in front at his flatter crotch, stretched tight across his wider hips. When Michael finished dressing—a process that took longer than usual—he felt much better; he felt almost normal again. He went downstairs, with heavy steps.