Succubated!

In the end, it turned out that the Monsignor had done more to help St. Andrew’s than any of the church’s trio of defenders realized. He’d called the governor, who’d authorized the national guard to intervene in the protest, preventing more than a few dozen men from breaking into the church. Once he’d arrived to eliminate them for good, Mastema had created a barrier to prevent interference—so most of the remaining mob had been stuck outside.

Of the other erstwhile allies who’d helped against Mastema, there was little information. Cassandra had vanished shortly afterward, slipping away like a shadow. Yael was still in some kind of suspended animation deep beneath the church, in the crypt beneath the choir where they’d dragged her manifested form after defeating Mastema. One advantage of the quarantine, at least, was that they didn’t have to worry about anyone discovering the comatose succubus in the basement.

A sign now hung on the front door of St. Andrew’s: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO CONTAINMENT OF A FOREIGN SUBSTANCE. NO EXCEPTIONS. ALL VISITORS WILL BE REQUIRED TO QUARANTINE AND SUBMIT TO TESTING. PLEASE CALL THE CHAPEL OFFICE FOR ADVICE.

Michael sat in his bedroom in the rectory, taking a break from packing. Given the tumult of recent hours, he hadn’t studied his body closely, as had become his daily habit of late. The battle had released so much energy and chaos in the church… had anything else about him changed, beyond the things he’d noticed? He stood up and peered at his face in the mirror.

His eyes were yellow-white like Yael’s—but not entirely so; Michael could see a hint of blue iris peeking through, though the milky sclera around them muted it. His pupils were still rectangular goat-like slits, which seemed to stare back with an intensity that made him feel self-conscious. The rest of his face hadn’t changed much: he had the same thinning hairline, the same stubble on his chin and cheeks, the same pug nose, the same small mouth and rounded jaw. At the corners of his hairline, two bony protrusions now erupted from his forehead, forcing him to wear a knit cap in public.

He pulled off the heavy cassock that he’d been using to disguise the changes to the rest of his body. Below his stubble-strewn neck, everything was different. He felt a strange sense of vertigo looking down at himself—at his very torso, which used to remind him of a keg, but which now resembled a slender hourglass. His waist was tiny compared to his protruding hips and curvaceous ass. His chest was narrow compared to his breasts, which nestled against his ribcage like two soft apples, with nipples the size of raisins—at least until they engorged.

When he looked between his legs, pulling the waistband of his panties out, he saw something he still hadn’t grown accustomed to: a pair of lush lips and a hooded clit. Even before they swelled with arousal, they were the most sensitive part of him. When he brushed them, they felt like velvet; when he brushed them with his lengthening nails, it was as if he had plugged into an electric current—a shock of pleasure that made him gasp.

His hands confused him as well, still feeling as if they weren’t his own. They were more delicate than before, and his fingers seemed longer and thinner than he remembered. He wiggled them, and they seemed strangely flexible, bending in ways that he wasn’t sure was possible for human hands. A few times he’d caught himself fumbling at the buttons on his shirt or pants, only to realize what he was doing and stop himself.

These changes were real, without a doubt. It was as if most of his body had become a human version of Yael’s: womanly, inviting, feminine—but not quite like any other woman he’d ever met. His arms and legs were incongruous, still bearing his embarrassing combination of muscle slowly going to seed and flabby folds. They were the limbs of a middle-aged man. His skin, however, was smooth; there was no hair anywhere on him except for his head, and the light, lace-like tracery of pubic hair covering his groin.

He stared at the image in the mirror again. Everything about him kept changing. If he could reverse the process, would he return to being Michael? Or would he still be someone new? Could he even call himself “Michael” anymore? As he thought of it, he realized he didn’t feel like himself—not really. What did he care if his name was Michael or Yael? Wasn’t this all just a dream? Would he wake up and discover that nothing had happened? No, he thought. If he kept down that road, he’d go to sleep and never wake up; only Yael would remain in his body, if Yael ever recovered.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall outside his room: Susan’s voice, followed by Father John’s. He quickly pulled on a pair of sweatpants, now strangely tight around his hips and backside, and wrestled himself into the compression bra, which was much easier to get on his smaller torso but didn’t do as much to reduce the curves on his breasts.

When he opened the door, Susan gave him a grinning thumbs-up; Father John just looked at him with an odd expression.

“Good morning,” said Father John. “I see you’re feeling better. Although… Michael, I just can’t get used to seeing you like this.” Michael glanced down at himself. Although his head appeared male, his body looked like that of a young, curvaceous woman, maybe a girl going out to exercise.

“Apologies for the, ah, athletic wear,” Michael replied. “It’s not quite what I’m used to wearing—not that I’m used to any of this. You know?” He sighed. “I’m packed. Susan, would you mind giving us a moment?”

Susan nodded and left them alone in the room. Father John sat down in his armchair; Michael remained standing. The priest stared at him for several seconds before speaking. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. I knew that something was going on, and I was trying to figure out how to help you without stepping over any lines.”

Michael nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. But we were concerned over the consequences of telling anyone else, especially Monsignor Albert. We didn’t want to risk him—or the Church—finding out.”

Father John considered him. “I can understand that. But it appears your secret was already out, even with Albert. I feel like I was the only one who wasn’t clued in. So, you might as well tell me everything. How did this happen? Why are you like this?” Michael took a deep breath, then launched into an account. He described Yael’s initial appearance, her manipulative rituals, his gradual transformation into a demi-succubus, and the subsequent events involving Mastema that John already knew of.

Father John rubbed his chin, scratching lightly at his sharp-trimmed beard. “Well,” he said after a while. “This is all incredibly strange. Yet somehow not surprising. I’ve known you for years now, Michael. You’re the kindest man I know. A good priest. Good mentor.”

He paused. “But I’m not sure what this will mean for our parish. If you become a succubus—and it seems as if you’re going to, from the way you look and act right now—”

“Then my life is over, yes,” Michael replied grimly. “If I don’t simply disappear first.” Father John looked up at him sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

Michael sighed. “I’m afraid of becoming like Yael. There isn’t room for both of us in this body. I will cease to exist, and she’ll inhabit what’s left. At least, that’s what usually happens? So… I’ve got to fight it. Or find another way.”

Father John shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. What does ‘becoming like’ Yael even mean?”

Michael explained about how she kept changing one body part at a time: hands, eyes, lips; until finally, Michael would lose himself in Yael’s will and corporeality so that only the demon’s personality and memories would remain. “Even my personality, my feelings and reactions, are slowly being replaced—or rather, suppressed by her own. It’s not just me anymore. I can’t think for myself anymore. Haven’t you noticed how different I am lately? How much more sensitive? How easily distracted? It’s because of her.”

Father John frowned. “I haven’t noticed changes in your behavior or attitude. Maybe you’ve felt that way, but it hasn’t come across to me. You’re always so thoughtful and kind; and now you seem even… more attentive than usual?” He paused for a moment. “Maybe that’s part of the problem?”

Michael nodded, looking glum. “Well, not exactly. It’s more the feeling that I don’t know what’s me and what’s her. Or how to fight back. If I’m too passive, then Yael will win—and if she wins, then I’ve lost everything. If I try to yell, scream, kick—she finds some way to use it against me.”

Father John looked at him sympathetically. “This must be impossibly difficult,” he murmured. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to have something else inside of you, controlling you in such an intimate way. Still, you trusted her enough to let her unleash those… powers of hers against that mob. You even fueled her with energy after she’d done the same for you in the hospital. Doesn’t that count for anything? Couldn’t you… persuade her to spare you?”

Michael sighed. “I admit there was… some detente between us, during this whole affair with Mastema. You can see part of what that earned me by looking at my body.” He blushed. “I mean… not that I want you to look at my body, not like this. Not ever!”

John favored him with a wry grin. “I understood what you meant, Michael.”

“Thank you, John. You’re always the best comfort when I’m stumbling. Still, I’m not sure how Yael or I could ever trust each other, if what she says is true—that she’ll lose her own identity if she doesn’t evict me, or some other mortal, and that I’ll effectively cease to exist if she stays. Besides, everything she’s done—helping Susan and I recover from our wounds, giving me information on Mastema, the ritual she enacted in our nave—are all easily interpreted as actions in her own self-interest.”

“Protecting her investment and the stake she’s claimed on you.” John grimaced. “Well, maybe it doesn’t matter if there’s no way to rouse her from her slumber.” Michael shook his head. Yael hadn’t responded to any attempts to contact or rouse her, and Susan was not in favor of trying anything like a ritual to summon the demon, or consecrate energy to her.

“Well, Michael.” John leaned forward, hands on his elbows. “Tell me what else I can do. I realize an exorcist should arrive soon, but there must be something I can help with in the meantime.”

Michael sighed again. “There is. That’s why I wanted to talk with you, Father John. To ask for your advice and guidance. You’ve known me since your appointment here at St. Andrew’s. I trust you. And I need someone to confide in.”

Father John smiled kindly. “Of course. Whatever you want, Michael. What can I do?”

“Well—” Michael hesitated. “I hope that some normalcy will allow me to hang on. Could I continue my work as a parish priest, following your lead, naturally? If you think that’s workable, even as a stretch. Please understand, I’m not asking just for the sake of appearances; it’s important to me.”

Father John was silent for a moment. “Of course, Michael,” he said at last. “If you think it might help, then we’ll try that. But if you’re not able to maintain your vocation through this process, it’s no shame. The two priests clasped arms, looking gravely at each other. It might be romantic, thought Michael, if it wasn’t his life on the line.

***

Susan nudged him in the ribs; she’d been watching him stare out the window for several minutes, saying nothing. She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

Michael turned to look at her with an expression of surprise. “Oh—yes. Sorry. Yes. Just tired from all the packing and unpacking. Thank you so much for letting me move into your place like this.” He gestured around at the living room of her spacious apartment. “This is so nice of you.”

Susan smiled warmly at him. She was wearing only a thin white sweater and black leggings, a look that said, “just hanging around at home with my gal pals.” Except he was in the place of a gal pal, Michael thought glumly.

“Not at all,” Susan replied. “I’m glad to have you here. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be sleeping in my bed or anything. My godparents set me up with a place that has a second bedroom with its own bathroom; that way, you won’t be sharing anything with me except a kitchen and living room.”

Michael laughed nervously. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to impose on your privacy like that.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I know you often have, ah… visitors and friends over?” He blushed slightly. “I hope my presence won’t interrupt your… social life.”

Susan shook her head. “No—not at all. If you don’t mind the noises; I can get a little loud when I’m having sex or playing with someone. I’m usually quiet during the day, though.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Just so long as you’re… careful?”

Susan giggled. “Are you giving me a safe-sex lecture?” she teased. “Because if so, I already know all about that.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his cheek. “Now come on. Let’s get this stuff unpacked and put away so we can relax with a movie or something.”

Michael followed her into the bedroom and watched as she began putting his clothes into the dresser drawers, overly helpful as usual. He stared at his feet, still his same old feet. How long would that last?

As if on cue, Susan handed him a large shoebox. “These are for… just in case.” She paused, then gestured for him to open the box. Inside were a pair of women’s boots, but they weren’t like any shoes that he owned; they were black leather motorcycle boots with a long, slightly bent shaft that looked as if it would nearly reach his knee. There was also a small leather purse.

“What’s this?” Michael asked curiously.

Susan pointed at the top of the boot. “Look inside. They’re not made for ordinary feet.”

Michael lifted the lid of the shoe and peered inside. Rather than widening into the sole, the space at the bottom of the boot’s shaft, where it met the heel, was round save for an indentation made by a leather pad. “Are these shoes for… for hooves?” he asked hesitantly.

Susan nodded. “That’s the idea. Demons and possessed people are more common now than ever before, but those with cloven hooves don’t always want to be spotted right away. Thus, this is a way to hide them from casual glances—and to protect them from harm.”

“I’m really hoping that I don’t need these,” Michael said emphatically.

Susan shrugged. “You never know; but Yael has hooves. You might end up with them too, the way things have been going. So, you need to be prepared.” Seeing Michael look nonplussed, she took out several other parcels.

“Here we go… a new compression bra and shirt for your smaller frame. Another one for if you end up… busting out. A floppy beret for if your horns grow further… a leg brace, and some blue contact lenses.” Michael looked at the last with interest, but shook his head.

“Susan, thank you so much. Really. But I don’t know if I’m ready to consider, or prepare, for even more changes than I’ve already had. This is enough to deal with. And besides—my greatest concern in all of this is my mind; how do I keep myself sane while dealing with all of this?”

He paced the room. “If I begin thinking like a succubus or a demon, what will happen to me? What if, even with my body the way it is now, I tend to act monstrously, like Yael? That’s why I’ve been trying to avoid anything that could lead to more transformation. It’s just too risky. Trying to… explore, sexually, led to half of my current changes.”

Susan frowned slightly as she listened to Michael’s concerns. “Of course, I understand. We’ve been trying that… so far. The results haven’t been good, Michael.” She kneeled in front of him and placed her hands on his knees, looking up at him. Somehow, there was nothing sexual about the posture, only the serious concern of a friend.

“I need you to think about this carefully,” she said. “We need a Plan B. It can’t be just letting your mind dissolve. What if there is a third way? My best teachers told me to always reject false binaries.”

Michael sighed. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

“If you can’t stop Yael from taking over—if you can’t reverse her possession in time, even with the exorcist on the way—then maybe the solution is to let yourself change.” Susan’s gaze felt earnest, serious.

Michael stared back at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been doing more research, as usual,” she said with a faint blush. “We know the usual story about the final stage of succubus possession, that the succubus eliminates the mortal host’s mind. But what if it’s more complex than that? What if the process simply changes the host somehow?”

Michael frowned. “You’re saying changed… but not destroyed, as the stories say?”

Susan nodded. “Precisely. Yael seems to alter you a bit at a time, perhaps by forcing you to undergo sexual experiences or rituals that would affect your morale and composure, even in the absence of the supernatural. Perhaps those same experiences and rituals could alter your mind, but without destroying it.”

Michael thought about this for a moment before nodding slowly. “That’s certainly been happening. But it makes me feel as if I’m losing myself.”

“Let’s consider two hypotheticals. In one, the human host exercises maximum resistance, and the succubus counters with equal force. The host is unwilling to submit, but the succubus forces her way in. What would happen to your mind?”

Michael paused. “It would probably break like glass under pressure. Like a bubble. Yael mentioned something succubae have done, breaking a human will with drugs, or torture.”

“Good. Now here’s another scenario: the human host submits to the succubus willingly—perhaps even eagerly. How does that play out?”

“According to Church doctrine,” he replied after a brief hesitation, “the host gives up his soul to the succubus; then she erases him and takes his place. That’s why people have such a hard time believing that anyone ever becomes a succubus voluntarily; it sounds too much like suicide. Only fanatics, demon-worshippers who want to throw themselves into the flames, would go that route.”

Susan smiled softly. “But imagine if someone did so voluntarily, but not intending to erase themselves? What if… that host’s mind didn’t disappear, but became the mind of a succubus? In that scenario… could the Church even tell the difference? What would the Church consider that possessed person, in their eyes?”

Michael considered this. “They’d label that human damned—close or equivalent to a demon themselves. The Church would never recognize the person as a human again.” A look of shock crossed his face as he realized where Susan was going with this. “You’re saying that…” he started hoarsely, “that—”

“If you willingly gave yourself over to become a succubus, you might actually gain a better chance at surviving the process—your mind, your soul!” Susan exclaimed triumphantly. “See how this works? You wouldn’t be giving up anything; you’d just be choosing to become something else instead. A creature that the Church considers lost, damned, inhuman.”

Susan had adopted her lecturing tone again. “However, we don’t really know whether that’s really the case, or just how the Vatican sees it. In most historical accounts I’ve researched, the human mind was too far gone already. They break under the strain of the process, or in resisting. Or they already wanted to lose themselves, give themselves totally over to the succubus…”

“…and in doing so, they get their wish, and give up their identity,” Michael finished. “But if I try to resist… or not fully resist, but ride this process, keeping a hold of my sense of self, and who I want to be…”

Susan nodded. “If the host survives the experience—if the core of recognizable ‘self’ remains afterwards—then the resulting being might not just be the succubus, or the human escaping unchanged, but something new.”

“If I survive—”

“Then maybe you won’t have given up everything,” she said encouragingly. “Maybe you’ll have gained something. Become something new. You might not stay a priest, not officially. But you’d still be Michael Belmont, with all your years of experience, knowledge, feelings…”

Susan saw a strange look come into Michael’s eyes. Was it hope? Or resignation? She couldn’t tell; his expression looked guarded, impossible for her to read clearly. He seemed like he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind and looked away from her. Susan waited patiently as the silence stretched on.

Eventually, he spoke. “If we go down this path, it would be like declaring war against the Church itself. However… and this is a big if—if we can find some way to make use of Yael’s possession without destroying my mind, without losing me entirely, then perhaps the tiniest chance exists that the Church will let us live out our lives in peace. For instance, if we could even prove that I’m still me, in some sense. I must think about this long and hard. It’s giving up, well, everything I’ve ever known.”

Michael looked down at his body, at his feminine hands, his hourglass waist, his soft hairless skin. At last, he met Susan’s gaze again. “I’ve already lost so much,” he mumbled. “Perhaps the only thing left to lose is my fear.”