v1 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: In which two ladies prepare for a party catering to unusual tastes.

Michael spent the next few days in contemplation and prayer, leaving Susan’s apartment occasionally. He took walks, visited Father John to help at the temporary location of St. Andrew’s services, and stopped by his old diocese to check on Yael. The succubus still lay entombed in the crypt of the quarantined church, looking as she had on the day of the siege. Her bountiful chest rose and fell slowly, as if she slept, but her eyes remained open and sightless; she did not communicate, nor appear to Michael in dreams or visions.

When he returned home each evening, Michael would sit with Susan for hours—talking about everything they could think of; sharing stories from their childhoods; discussing the nature of reality and the soul. They took turns reading aloud from books on theology, philosophy, demonology, occultism, and psychology. Susan claimed it was a process of exploration to “re-ground” Michael in his own soul. After days, Michael really felt as if he was coming to understand himself at least slightly better.

As time passed, however, Michael found he felt less confident about their tentative plan to defy both the Church and Yael. He kept coming back to a question: if he changed so much that he was unrecognizable even to himself, if he became a different sort of being entirely, wasn’t that much the same as losing his identity? Wasn’t that a kind of death?

He sought Father John’s advice, in the confessional and in quiet conversations in the afternoon. John remained certain that Michael had only changed in appearance; he still recognized Michael’s voice when they spoke and could sense Michael’s mind and personality through his words and thoughts. Michael believed him, but this was not enough to assuage his fears. What if the transformation continued further than just appearances? What if some part of Michael was already gone forever? But John’s faith in Michael remained steadfast.

Michael asked Susan for more details about how Yael came into being, and why she wanted to possess him. There were very few historical details about Yael, although some occultists believe she was Yael mentioned in the Bible: an Israelite woman who killed an enemy commander by hammering a tent peg through his skull. “That sounds like something she’d do,” Michael admitted. “She got him to come back to her tent, fed him ‘milk instead of water,’ which I have to say sounds like an intoxicant, and then slew him.”

Susan nodded. “An early boss bitch, pardon my language.” She covered her giggle with one hand. “And Yael is obviously a Hebrew name, which I’d wondered about. But if she claims to be the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith, wouldn’t that make her far older than the time of this conflict?”

Whatever her murky, demonic history, Yael’s motives seemed clear; it seemed the demoness had been honest in that regard. She was a being of energy who would gradually lose self-awareness without a human host. In her case, that meant becoming a creature of pure lust and sexual hunger with barely any memory or personality. For a succubus, despite immortality, the question of continuity of self was also at stake.

Michael realized he had rarely considered the possibilities of his own mortality. If he became a demon, would he be able to die like anyone else? Or would he continue to exist—perhaps indefinitely—as a mindless beast of desire and emotion? Would there ever come a day when he could no longer feel what it was like to be him? Would he, in turn, seek another mortal host to convert? The thought nauseated him.

***

Michael hung up the phone and shook his head. “Monsignor Albert says it the Vatican exorcist could arrive any time, but it could be up to a week. Another Monsignor, Thomas Spencer... apparently, he runs some special programs in the area?” Susan looked thoughtful.

He sat down heavily in one of Susan’s chairs. “I know I’ve resisted further changes with Yael dormant. But I can’t just keep going like this, in a holding pattern.”

Susan came to sit on the floor next to the chair, crossing her legs and taking his hand in hers. Michael’s nails had grown long, darkening towards their tips, which curved inwards to points.

“What if we tried a different approach? We could explore, go out. Look at this invitation for a party tonight.” Michael quirked an eyebrow, but accepted the flyer Susan proffered.

SUBMISSION, read the flyer. Brooklyn’s Premiere Play Party for Queers, Trans People, Fetishists, and Weirdos. Supernatural Types Welcome! Bring Your Kinks and your Enthusiastic Consent.

Michael blanched. “Is this... is this like a sex club? A fetish thing? Susan, I know you have... these interests. But do you really think this would help me resist Yael? Or would it be worse than doing nothing at all? I’m not sure I want to do anything that transforms my body further.”

“You’re in the middle of nowhere, Michael. You haven’t made any decisions about your body; it’s just been scrambled by forces beyond your control.” Susan tapped his hairy cheek, then his smooth forearm. “It’s no wonder you feel upset and confused. But what if you tried taking charge of who you are, what you want to be like, even if it involves reshaping one part of your body? It’s worth a try.”

Michael sighed reluctantly, but took the flyer from her and studied it again. SUBMISSION. The words seemed to glow on the paper. Part of his thoughts and feelings were responding to the idea; he could almost hear a seductive whisper in his year. He glanced up at Susan. She smiled encouragingly. Michael felt himself flush. “You’ve been to this... event before?” he asked.

Susan nodded, looking away as she spoke. “I’ve been several times,” she said with a quiet grin. “To find friends to, you know... play with?” Her voice trailed off awkwardly. Michael waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. A moment passed. Susan cleared her throat and spoke again: “It’s a very welcoming place—for people who don’t fit in anywhere else. I’ve met some amazing people there.”

Michael was silent for a long time, considering the flyer. Finally, he shrugged. “If you think it will help, then we should go.” He stood up and reached for his jacket.

Susan began laughing. “Michael! You can’t wear just any old thing. It’s a fetish party! Come to my bedroom, we’ll have to get dolled up. It’s a big step for you, so I’ll help, but you’ll have to decide what you’re comfortable with.”

***

What followed was several hours of exhaustive preparation; Michael had never seen Susan wear anything like the outfit she chose. Besides a leather harness over her shoulders and a matching collar around her neck, she wore black fishnet stockings, a corset, a latex bra, garter belt, sheer black boy-shorts, and thigh-high boots with pointy toes. But that was ordinary compared to the changes she had in mind for Michael.

“First,” she said, “we get rid of the beard. I want you to shave your face completely clean. As smooth as a baby’s bottom. Sit down here while I get the razors.” She handed him an electric razor with a trimmer attachment, and a sharp-looking hand razor with several blades. Michael took a deep breath. He’d been bearded for years, but it was the part of his appearance that felt the most at odds with the changes in his body. He nodded, accepting the idea.

“Then we do your hair—you’ll need a wig too. I’ve got two that I like to wear occasionally.” Susan opened her closet and pulled out two wigs: one blonde, one brunette. “Try this one,” she said, handing him the dark wig. It had an asymmetrical bob cut, a swoop of hair falling at a smooth angle on one side.

Michael took it from her reluctantly. He wasn’t sure about this part. And yet, he felt strangely excited by the prospect of transforming himself into someone else. Of not worrying about looking like a priest, or an ordinary person, or a man at all. Was that some essence of Yael inside of him, some part that wanted to look like a sultry seductress? Or was it just a response to his situation?

Michael shaved himself closely, starting with the clipper; he hadn’t seen his fully bare face since college at least. Afterwards, his cheeks were not as smooth as his hairless body, but he felt somehow more... congruous? Was that the word to describe his feeling of togetherness, matching? As opposed to feeling inadvertently hairy above, smooth below.

Next, Michael lifted the wig over his head, surprised at how natural the strands felt. He looked at himself in the mirror. The wig made his skin look even paler than usual and gave his eyes a different shape. He didn’t feel so much like Michael Belmont anymore.

“Now you’re ready for makeup,” Susan said, opening a large cosmetics bag. Michael hesitated, took yet another deep breath, and nodded. It was time for bravery—and if he wanted to have any chance of maintaining himself through the storm of Yael’s possession, then he needed to learn how to play the part. Besides, he had always admired gay men bold enough to wear makeup, and he’d never thought of himself as simply another conventional man, no matter how he’d avoided acting on his feelings.

Susan took charge and began applying foundation, first a light layer over his face, then darker layers in contours on top. She applied eyeliner around his eyes, and mascara, with sweeping strokes of a brush along the length of his lashes. Finally, she added just of blush to his cheeks, a matching shade of eyeshadow, and quite a lot of dark red lipstick to his lips. Michael adjusted the wig and looked in the mirror.

Makeup had transformed him: pale skin with red accents around his eyes and along the sides of his cheeks, bringing out his cheekbones. Thick black lashes framed his strange, goat-like eyes. His lips were a deep berry red and painted into a perfect bow shape. The wig fell around his ears and jaw, still angular but also... more elegant?

He couldn’t believe what he saw—it was him, but not him. Michael wasn’t used to this kind of double vision. He didn’t quite look like a woman; his large, angular face wasn’t soft or refined enough to eliminate the impression he’d so long associated with Father Michael Belmont. But Father Michael Belmont, the diocesan priest, looked nothing like this, wouldn’t and couldn’t. The overall effect was uncanny and beautiful to him, and made Michael feel strangely powerful.

Susan was working on his wig now, carefully teasing it out into a shaggy mess of strands, then sweeping it to the sides, pinning it. “Now,” she said, holding up her hand mirror, “let’s see how you look.” She turned him around slowly; he felt strange—like an object being inspected in a shop window. Susan nodded approvingly.

Michael looked at himself from every angle. With his face made up and his thinning hair disguised under the wig, he saw all of his new features in a different light: his modest breasts pushing against the fabric of his T-shirt, chubby nipples poking through the material; the wide hips that were more feminine than ever before; his tight stomach and narrow waist, widening at his rear into a plump ass. He looked like a woman, the entire package considered; it was quite possible nobody would give this woman a second glance, if she walked by in street clothes.

“You like?” Susan asked, looking over his shoulder. Michael nodded slowly, trying to decide whether he did. “Good,” she said. “Now let’s get your nails done.” She led him to the bathroom, where she had set up a small manicure table.

There was already a bottle of nail polish on it, along with a few brushes and some cotton balls. Michael sat down as instructed while Susan took off his old, broken-down shoes and began painting his toes. His nails, she left alone. “Already succubus enough,” she said.

Afterwards, they went to Susan’s closet to look for an outfit. “You’re a little smaller in the chest and bigger in the backside than me... good lord, what I wouldn’t give for an ass like yours! You don’t have the full succubus look yet, but you have enough of that vibe to show off your assets.” Michael swallowed nervously. He was not used to being complimented—not by women or men.

Susan pulled out a long black skirt; it fell just below her knees and ended at mid-thigh. She held up another one, this one shorter and tighter fitting, made from a stretchy fabric. “These are both lengths I like when I’m going out,” she explained. “Try the short one on.” Michael did so, pulling it up his legs and feeling the fabric brush against his skin. When he looked in the mirror again, he once more saw a woman, her slender body shown off to advantage by the taut skirt.

“You like?” Susan asked.

Michael nodded, slowly but in earnest. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Pull that off for a second, back to underwear. We’ll complete the fetish club look,” said Susan. She reached into a box on top of her closet and pulled out an array of black garments over his underwear: a fishnet body stocking, the short skirt, a simple corset, boots with low heels, leather cuffs—all of which fit better than he would have thought possible. Michael could hardly breathe; his eyes were wide open and startled as she put everything on him.

Susan asked him to raise his arms and helped him slide into a latex top that fastened in a collar at his neck and looped in straps around his arms. The bodice bore a kind of scale pattern and emphasized the shape of his breasts along with the corset. He turned around in the mirror again, wobbling a bit. Yet again, he saw a woman; maybe not the prettiest woman, but certainly a woman wearing a provocative and form-fitting outfit.

“Finishing touches.” She placed the red sunglasses she’d bought a couple of weeks before on his face. “When we get there, I doubt anyone will think your pupils are too strange,” she said. “They’ll just assume they’re freaky contact lenses. But you can wear these on the way.”

Michael Belmont couldn’t help but take another look in the mirror before they went out the door, their club outfits covered with two of Susan’s longer coats. Was he really going to play this part? A girl going out for a night at a sex club? He lowered the sunglasses slightly, kicked up a heel, and winked. Was that him? Was it Yael? Or somehow, someone in between? Someone else entirely—someone who was enjoying this experience immensely. Someone experiencing becoming a woman for the first time.