The Devil turned Phil into a girl when he wished for a Halloween date. Now -- who's that at the door?

Chapter II - "Reflections"

The Devil in Drag

Chapter II: "Reflections"

 
"I'm gorgeous!" Phil exclaimed.

His reflection, her reflection continued to astonish her, him. The blonde hair fell in soft waves across delicate shoulders, big blue eyes deeper than oceans under a canopy of dark lashes, and skin flawless as a baby's. Not to mention the delirious wetdream of a shape filling out Phil's old clothes, all visible in the mirror above the couch.

"Ah do good work, sugah," the Devil said, smiling. Phil looked at her warily, this whole thing of a contest between God and Satan for his, her soul, had gotten out of hand. Now the Devil had turned Phil into a gorgeous babe so he, she could get laid easily and allow the Devil to control the start of Armageddon. The Devil in Drag, Nickie Asmodeus, that is.

It occurred to Phil that she, he now looked remarkably like the Apparition he, she had summoned up with the instructions on WWW.Walpurgisnacht.Com. Two nearly identical blondes faced each other across the length of the suburban family room.

Phil's eyes were blue, Nickie's green. Phil's hair a soft, nearly white ash-blonde and curly-wavy down to the shoulders, Nickie's hair platinum with a brassy undertone and done up in a big-hair-Southern way. Nickie's clothes looked like she had just stepped off the Prom float, tight, short evening gown and high heel pumps while Phil was still wearing the blue jeans and t-shirt of a boy much taller than she was now. Nickie's makeup was theatrical but perfect, Phil's face was bare and her expression, shocked.

And they had the same tiny waist, abundant hips and surely Phil's tits were just as big as Nickie's if not bigger. A few moment's ago, Nickie's face and figure had inflamed Phil's passions. She had played him like a fiddle and physical desire constantly threatened to embarrass him. Now, SHE could look at Nickie and the only thing that really came to mind was an inanity; she dyes her hair, Phil thought.

She. That was the proper pronoun now. The enormity of what had been done struck Phil like a blow. One moment he was a nineteen year old boy, the next a supermodel. "This can't be happening," she heard herself say.

"Sugah, you just bet it cain't!" Nickie grinned, well, evilly. "I gotta go now, lovah, lots of people wanna talk to li'l ol' me on Strangefellows Day. I'll check back in on you, later, honey." Nickie gathered her things and raised a pretty hand in the air. "Bye-ee," she waved before vanishing in a puff of lavender smoke.

"You can't just leave me here like this!" Phil protested. "Don't leave me!" She scrambled across the floor dragging the too long jeans behind her. "Satan! Come back!" But the Devil was gone.

Phil tried to stand but tripped on the jeans legs and fell to her knees. The jarring did odd things to the new distribution of weight on her chest. It didn't exactly HURT but it wasn't entirely pleasant. Grabbing the bobbing boobies to stop their jiggling did major damage to Phil's remaining self image as a guy. Guys did not have breasts this big, bigger than a double handful each. "I'm gonna need a bra," she whimpered, appalled at the idea.

She glanced around the room, even bent to look under the table hoping that The Devil was simply playing tricks and would pop out like a jack-in-the-box and admit to having played a cruel joke. "Satan?" Phil called softly. The odd sound of her own voice kept her from shouting more loudly. "Miss Devil?" she whispered hopefully.

Pulling herself up into a dining chair she spared a reproachful glance for the Royal Oak Combination Fan and Chandelier over the dining room table from which the Voice of Jehovah and been heard. "You were a lot of help!" she sniffed.

"I was," agreed the Voice.

Phil squealed in terror and slipped from the chair to her knees. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean any disrespect, sir! I didn't know you were still there! Honest! The Devil said you had left!" she squeaked.

The fan blades began to turn slowly. "I'm always Here," said the voice.

Phil trembled, feeling weak she bent forward to support herself on all fours. God was in his, her parents' dining room and by implication had been and would continue to be for all time. "It's a miracle," she whispered. She tried to remember which way to cross herself, though she, he had never been in a Catholic church in his, her life.

The Voice made no comment.

"Um, God?" Phil ventured. "If you are still there can you change me back?"

"Yes."

Relief flooded through Phil and she struggled with herself not to start bawling. God would change her back, she had always been a good boy and God wouldn't let the devil turn her into some sort of fantasy cheerleader.

She braced herself for the ripple of change that had so startled her the first time. Nothing happened. For several moments she crouched there waiting and nothing continued to happen.

"Aren't you going to change me back?" she asked trembling, half expecting a lightning bolt to descend from the gently turning blades.

"No," said the Voice. "You haven't thanked Me for saving you from hell."

"You did?" squeaked Phil. Her voice was definitely higher now, she wondered inanely if she were a soprano. Phil had been a boy soprano in a children's chorus at school but he had never really tried to sing again after his voice changed.

"Several times," the Voice sounded mildly amused if not a little exasperated. "Most recently when you meddled in the use of magic. Lucifer had every right to carry you off to The Pit, I talked her out of it."

Phil considered. The church he, she had been occasionally involved with had not been particularly heavy on the fire and brimstone but she, he was familiar with the images. "What is Hell like?" she asked faintly.

"You really don't want to find out, do you?"

"I guess not. Uh, thank You."

"You're welcome," said the voice and the lamps in the Royal Oak Combination Fan and Chandelier glowed momentarily on their lowest setting.

"Now will you change me back? Sir?" asked Phil meekly.

"No."

"Why not?" It was probably bad form to whine at God but Phil couldn't help it. She couldn't see her own face at the moment and did not realize she was pouting, too.

The Voice ignored the appearance of disrespect. "The rules for the contest The Adversary and I have agreed to forbid My intervention in that way." Phil was distracted by the odd thought that the Voice had begun to sound familiar. "Changing you into a female was to be expected, once the parameters of the wager had been established. The Enemy expects your will to be weakened by your transformation. Only you can give The Liar power over your soul. But your body, even your brain can be manipulated by the Fallen One, under our rules."

"M-my brain?" squeaked Phil, horrified by the images of thousands of bad horror movie cliches. "M-my brain? Uh, God, that-that's where I LIVE." For the moment she forgot her speculation about just who, or Who, the Voice sounded like.

"Yes. Your brain is not you, it is only part of your domicile. You are a soul, a being of pure beingness. Made in My Own image." Involuntarily, Phil glanced down at herself. The idea of God with two bulges in Her t-shirt seemed sacrilegiously funny at that moment but Phil resisted incipient hysteria.

The Voice continued. "I have endowed you with free will and the rules of the wager do not allow the Adversary to rob you of My gift."

"You-You're warning me not to fail in the wager. Not to be the cause of Satan controlling the date of Armageddon. I-I'll try, God. I promise I will try, I know You're depending on me not to fail." Phil trembled, the fate of Mankind was resting on her narrowed shoulders.

"No," said the Voice. "You are only human. I'm expecting you to fail, at least twice." Again the Voice seemed amused. "I am warning you to guard your soul, do not lose sight of your chance at Heaven. As for the date of Armageddon, trust Me that I know what I am doing."

"W-what?" Phil, dropped her head in confusion. The blonde curls made a tent around her face as she stared at the pattern in the carpet. The small hands with their delicate nails at the end of her too slender arms distracted her once again with the impact of her transformation.

The Voice did not answer.

Phil looked up again. The lamps were dark and the blades of the Royal Oak Combination Ceiling Fan and Chandelier coasted gently to a stop. Phil spent several minutes uselessly pleading with the inanimate appliance. God might still be in the building but He was answering no more questions.

At last, exhausted by hope and fear, Phil began to cry. Not fair, she told herself. Magic doesn't work, everybody knows that. How was he, she to know that on Strangefellows Day, the third odd Thursday of the month, it would. She had used the spell just for fun, she hadn't really wanted to summon up a devil, especially not The Devil. And certainly not be turned into a girl! All she, he had wanted to do was get a date for Halloween this Saturday -- and maybe get lucky. She felt her face redden at that last thought.

"I'm never lucky," she sobbed. She sat back on her round bottom and lifted her t-shirt to wipe her eyes.

She felt the globes on her chest swaying with her movements. Reaching under the t-shirt she touched them. They certainly felt real, though Phil had never actually felt of a girl's tits before. Well, not skin to skin, just a few "accidental" collisions with one of the cheerleaders back when he had been in high school glee club.

She pulled the t-shirt higher and bent her head to look at her new breasts. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the delectable globes. Each smooth round mound of flesh had a nipple with a ring of soft crinkly flesh around it. The nipples and areolas were a warm brown, darker than the same spots on his old chest. Her explorations caused the nipples to react and become erect. It felt like two soft little erections on her chest.

She felt weird, to say the least. "I've got to get a good look at myself,' she murmured. Standing in the too-long jeans seemed impossible, so she undid the snaps and wriggled out of them. The pale blue boxers were just ridiculous, so she took them off, too.

Naked from the waist down now, she walked to the couch and sat, suddenly disturbed by the odd sensations of walking. First was the feel of something missing between her legs and then, well, her breasts bounced with every movement, and hair brushed her shoulders distractingly. Sitting, she suddenly reached back to feel of her butt. Soft and round and just a little jiggly, it was sort of like sitting on a water cushion.

She sighed, with a little hiccup of a sob in the middle of it. Leaning forward she looked down the Valley of the Boobs toward her crotch. Soft curly blonde hair grew there in a narrow box shape around her pussy. "My dick is gone," she whimpered. She reached one delicate hand down there just to be sure. No protruding male member, just a slit edged with soft flesh. She didn't dare stick a finger in there though she couldn't have said why.

It didn't occur to her to wonder why her pubic hair grew in that peculiar shape. Her sole experience with seeing the female body nude had been the pages of a certain tasteful men's magazine and she actually thought girl's pussies all looked that neat and trim. She had no hair on her legs or underarms, and she hadn't noticed that either.

Small wonder. The way her mind fell and swooped she might not have noticed if the house had caught fire.

The hell of it is, she thought, I know I'm not crazy. I KNOW this is real. I've met the Devil and talked to God and still I know I'm not crazy. I kind of wish I was. She whimpered a little then wiped away her tears. "I-I-I'm a girl," she said out loud. Her voice startled her again. It sounded so wrong. Higher pitched and even the cadence, the music was wrong. She tossed her head to get her hair out of her eyes, a very feminine gesture that she was immediately aware of.

"Whattamyegonnado-oo-oo?" she suddenly wailed and burst into tears again. Great wrenching sobs that made her chest heave so that every bounce and jiggle of her breasts communicated once again that she was now a girl. Would God or the Devil ever change her back? Would she be stuck like this for the rest of her life? "Please, please, please change me back," she sobbed to Anybody who might be listening.

Why can't I believe that I'm crazy and that this isn't really happening, she asked herself. But she knew; God had made it a part of the rules of the bet; she had to retain her sanity and her free will; she wasn't going to be allowed to go crazy.

She finally cried herself out and lay on the couch, wearing nothing but Phil's old undershirt, almost long enough on her new body for a very short miniskirt. Exhausted, or at least momentarily drained of emotion she idly played with a lump of wet Kleenex. She felt better for having cried, better but still depressed. Every movement she made, every sound, reminded her of her predicament.

Just the kinesthetic sense of how her body parts were arranged was wrong. Her thighs were too close together, her hips too far apart. She felt short; she could actually stretch out full-length on the six-foot couch but her legs felt absurdly long. Even her elbows seemed to bend funny and she spent a few moments flexing her arms and marveling at the out-of-joint dislocation of reality and her new elbows.

When the doorbell rang she almost fell off the couch. Panicky, she wondered if anyone could see her from outside. She sat up and tried to pull all of her limbs inside the t-shirt while staring at the door.

The bell rang again. "Michael," she whispered. The relief in knowing who was on the other side of the door almost caused her to break into tears again. The afternoon had slid into evening and Phil's friend Mike had come to go to the movies with him -- with HIM. She whimpered a little. She couldn't let Michael see her like this. "Go away," she muttered. Then louder, "Go away!"

The key moved in the door lock, startling her again before she remembered, Mike and Phil had had keys to each other's houses ever since seventh grade. Mike's mom had made jokes about having a second son and Phil's mother had actually suggested the exchange of keys so either boy could go into either house and wait for the other while busy parents conducted busy lives.

The door opened and Michael stepped in, smiling. Mike, good old solid Mike. Good old broad-shouldered, square-jawed, snappy-dresser Mike. Mike who effortlessly made straight A's and ran 90 yards for touchdowns. Mike who got all the girls that seemed to forever elude his skinny, gawky buddy. Mike for whom Phil had always felt equal parts friendship, admiration and envy.

Handsome Mike. She had never realized just how good-looking Mike really was. Six-foot-five, brown hair bleached almost golden by the sun, hazel eyes that changed color when he smiled or frowned. Stubbly jaw, muscular arms, big hands, trim waist, legs in perfect proportion to his height. No wonder the girls all went nuts about him, he was like a god. She had to stare, drinking him in, her mouth open -- and he stared right back.

He smiled. And she felt her nipples crinkle and a small muscle or something she had never known she had somewhere in her groin area flexed just a little, a tickle that sent a shiver up her spine and into her brain. Her brain? The realization that Satan's transformation had not stopped with the shape of her body but had extended even to her brain finally penetrated.

The horror of the idea paralyzed her for a moment before.

Mike opened his mouth and before he could finish asking, "Who are you?" she was off the couch and running up the stairs, into the bathroom, with the door locked. She had wanted to go into Phil's room for refuge but at the last moment she remembered, that door had no lock. And she definitely wanted a lock between herself and the handsome stranger who used to be her best friend.

She didn't think about being naked from the waist down until she had locked the door, her hands trembling. But she heard his admiring "Wow!" as she fled.