Disclaimer: This story contains scenes primarily of interest to adults, 

and is intended solely for adults. If you are underage, or reading

adult-oriented literature offends you, or if doing so is illegal in your 

jurisdiction, please go read something else.



The following story is Copyright 1999 by Elaine Blankenship and Brian 

Matthews. All Rights Reserved. May be archived on Fictionmania, Nifty, 

Sapphire's, TSA and atERos by consent. Do not post to any mailing lists 

or to the Usenet Newsgroups nor otherwise archive on the web without 

permission from one of the authors. 



The authors are members of Net Authors and Creators Union which 

enforces the rights of authors on the net. [email protected].



========================================

Spellbound!

By Brian Matthews & Lainie Lee

Chapter I



"Tick."



The sound must have awakened me.  I lay there in the darkness wondering 

whether I was really awake, or still in the bizarre dream I had been

having.



I had been working late, trying to get out the employee evaluations that 

had been due at the end of last month.  Janice, my boss, had already 

asked me for them three times. I'd called home and told my wife, Cindy, 

that I would be late.  Maybe I'd dreamed all of it.  Maybe I hadn't been 

to work yet today at all.



It had certainly seemed real.  Struggling with just the right words for 

the people who worked for me, not too lavish, not too severe.  Fair, 

decent and supportable.  Middle management hell is writing employee 

evaluations.  I dreamed I'd finished by 10 p.m. and passed by my boss' 

office on the way to drop the stack of papers in her in-box.  I didn't 

expect to see a light coming out of the door into her office, even in a 

dream.



I hesitated to step into the light, because I didn't really want her to 

know I was there.  In fact, she had specifically ordered me not to work 

late tonight, but to come in on the weekend and finish up.  "Brian," 

she had said firmly, "Monday is soon enough for those things.  Go home, 

that's an order."



But I had agreed to take Carly, my 14-year-old daughter, and Paul, my 

11-year-old son, to Newport Beach to see the Tall Ships that Saturday.  

Sunday we had planned our regular monthly trip up to Apple Valley to 

see my wife's mother.  You take the bad with the good, sometimes.



So I had snuck back in after catching a fast food meal to work quietly 

at my desk.  Now what?  I couldn't leave our department without walking 

past her office.  From the sounds I could hear, she must still be in 

there.  She probably wouldn't actually chew me out, but it is 

embarrassing to be a 39-year-old male called on the carpet by a woman 

thirteen years younger.



But the sounds?  And the light!  Something was wrong with both of them.  

The light flickered, yellow and green as well as white.  And the sounds 

murmured and muttered and even gasped.  There was a rhythm to those 

sounds, and I thought I recognized it.  I should have known it must have 

been a dream, I thought.  The idea of Janice, my prim, if pretty boss, 

making love after hours on her office desk, apparently by candlelight, 

seemed just as incredible now as then.



Hardly believing that I would do something like that, I crouched on the 

hall carpet and tried to peer around the door jamb, my head well below 

eye level.  Why would I behave so bizarrely?  What did I expect to see? 



Certainly nothing so bizarre as actually met my eye.



There stood Janice leaning on her desk, her dress-for-success skirt 

hiked to her waist, her pantyhose and VS frillies pulled down to her 

ankles.  This was almost predictable, given the sounds I'd heard.  But 

kneeling between Janice's knees was a thing out of nightmares.



Even on its knees, the thing had to crouch and bend its serpentine neck 

to put its greenish lips and ochre tongue on Janice's sweet little cunny.  

From its WWWF shoulders sprang stubby blades, or perhaps horns would be 

a better description.  In the flickering light of a dozen different 

colored candles, the thing hissed and snorted, slobbered and slathered 

in its efforts, and Janice breathed and sighed, muttered and moaned her 

response.



Was she enjoying a tryst with a cunt-eating monster?  Or being devoured 

by some demonic thing out of a dyspeptic episode of The Crypt of Horror?  

Spurs with points eighteen inches long grew from its ankles.  Claws like 

daggers tipped the thing's fingers and toes.  Janice's face writhed and 

I heard her whimper.  In pain?  I guess I must have screamed about then.



Laying there in the darkness, it took only seconds after the click that 

woke me to remember my dream.  I gasped and nearly screamed again, 

because I remembered what had happened next in the nightmare.



Janice's eyes had flown open but unseeing.  The thing turned toward me 

as I stood.  Why did I do it?  Why would I have ever done such a mad 

thing?  I charged it, swinging as my weapon the cardboard folder holding 

my precious employee evaluations!  I looked into a face that would have 

made Dante puke, and tried to give it a vicious paper cut.



Standing, it turned and I saw that the monster was undoubtedly male.  A 

penis the length of Sammy Sosa's bat stood out from the nest of snaky 

locks at the groin.  Long as a baseball bat and as thick around as 

Evander Holyfield's biceps: The Schlong of Doom, The Root of All Evil, 

The Gotterdammerdong, The Boner from Hell.  Somewhere I heard Janice 

screaming, "Brian, you fool!  What are you doing here?  For the sake of 

our souls, don't cross the chalk lines!"



Chalk lines?  I hadn't seen any chalk lines.  At least not until she 

mentioned them.  In that fraction of a second before the monster's hand 

reached me, I realized that the floor of Janice's office was covered in 

multi-colored chalk lines.  They must have been everywhere, a rainbow 

net on the dusty blue of the cheap carpet.  Unfortunately, I was 

standing well inside the outer rings of the pentacle, pentagram, or 

whatever it might be called!



The creature flexed four claws on one enormous hand, passing the 

knife-like growths down the front of me, knocking aside my arms and the 

folders with my papers, ripping my clothing to shreds and, I felt sure, 

leaving my entrails hanging out.  Or did it?  I tried to cover myself.  

My skin felt slick with fear-sweat but -- no blood.  I looked down to 

check.  My clothes were ruined, but my skin was unmarked, and most 

astonishingly, I had a fine boner of my own!



"It's a male," a cement truck might have muttered in just such a matter 

of fact voice.  Or a garbage truck, judging by the smell that 

accompanied the breath.  I tried to retch, but nothing came up.  I tried 

to back away, but my feet seemed glued to the carpet.  My dick throbbed 

with a lust I couldn't understand, a phallic insanity that might get me 

killed or worse.  My aching balls dangled just inches from the claws and 

maw of a demon!



"He has broken the wards," said the demon.



Somehow, I knew that must be bad.



"He is just a servant of mine," said Janice.  "He has no importance."



I looked at her.  I had tried to save her, and this was how she would 

treat me?  She pursed those red, red lips and shook her head at me, 

another warning.  Since when had she been wearing such garish makeup?  

But I kept quiet.



"A forfeit must be paid," muttered the Twilight Zone extra.



Janice still stood with her butt against her desk, her skirt above her 

waist and her panties and hose around her ankles.  Some unidentified 

fluid trickled slowly and thickly down her smooth leg.  My dick throbbed 

as I watched her there.  "We're married," I reminded it silently.



"Keep your mouth shut, Brian," said Janice, "and I may get us out of 

this."



"A forfeit," said the demon, more loudly.  "We demand a forfeit, or we 

go free."



"What would you want?" asked Janice.  Normally, she talked like everyone 

else, but now she sounded like a Shakespearean actor.  She really was a 

very pretty woman, I thought inanely, but I never knew she was such a 

witch.



"Your lives!" shouted the demon, and he smiled like a display of bones 

in the Natural History Museum.



My hair stood on end.  Janice licked her lips and stammered.  "Don't you 

think that's a little harsh?" How could she talk to this thing so calmly?  

"You've already been paid your asking price for the services I required."



I couldn't help it.  I squeaked, "He's going to kill us for messing up 

the chalk?"



"Quiet!" Janice ordered.  "Demodeus, I will protest this to the highest 

council."



The demon smiled.  "I didn't ask for your deaths, but your lives.  It's 

a trade, not a liquidation.  But for you," he added to me, "my nosy, 

noisy little servant, an extra forfeit." Then he picked me up and bit 

off some things I had always felt very important to me.







Chapter II



Lying in the bed, in the dark, next to a clock that had ticked only once 

while I recalled the dream, I almost cried out again.  Reflexively, I 

pulled my knees up to my chest, and wrapped my arms around my legs.  

The remembered pain was mostly psychic, it hadn't really hurt at all.  

Then again, it hadn't really happened.



Had it?



When had my legs become so smooth?  What softness on my chest pressed 

against my knees?  What the heck was I wearing?  Soft and smooth and 

clinging....



Somewhere an alarm began ringing, a buzzing alarm clock like the old 

electrics before everything had digital beeps.  I searched for the clock 

on the nightstand I could barely see.  It wasn't there.



I did find a lamp where no lamp should be.  Curiouser and curiouser, I 

flicked it on.  The room sprang into existence around me.  Pink walls 

above blond paneling.  Posters of rock bands.  A dresser painted a 

dreadful shade of mauve.  Sixteen stuffed animals piled around me.  



And there, above the dresser, a strange window into another similar room 

where a girl with long, tousled, dark blond hair knelt amongst stuffed 

animals and stared back at me.  She wasn't wearing much, something pink 

and mostly transparent.  I could almost see the tips of her young 

breasts pushing against the translucent fabric, and even catch a glimpse 

of the swelling form of them through her open neckline.



I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.  Of course.  What 

nearly-forty-year-old, middle management type expects to be turned into 

a sixteen-year-old girl by his boss's pet demon?



I stared at the image in the mirror for what seemed like forever.  When 

I moved my arm, she lifted hers.  When I stuck out my tongue, she did 

the same.  It was like that old Marx Brothers routine.  Only I wasn't 

laughing.  Then I remembered what that demon said.



"You must forfeit..."



Somehow, he had changed me into this girl.  I remembered the bite and 

shuddered.  After the initial shock subsided, I began to take stock of 

the situation.  Although I had apparently been transformed into a young 

female, I still seemed to possess the analytical mind that had served 

me fairly well in my male life.



Of course, I wasn't behaving completely rationally, but I didn't know 

that.



Carefully, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and slowly rose to 

my feet.  The sway and jiggle of my new body distracted me, even annoyed 

me a little.  I smoothed my new, delicate hands over the nightgown that 

clung to my body, and felt for the first time the breasts that now hung 

from my chest.



They were soft and on the small side, perhaps a B cup (just as you 

would expect from a girl who had not quite fully developed), yet they 

seemed HUGE.  The nipples hardened at my touch, sending a faint yet 

pleasurable tingle through my body.



I gasped at the feeling, and the sound of my new feminine voice took me 

by surprise.  Getting my bearings, I edged closer to the mirror.  The 

fresh-faced and pretty vision that stared back at me had long, blonde 

hair, tangled from a night of sleep, with bangs that feathered back away 

from my face.  I brushed back the hair, and noticed a hole in each 

earlobe, which conjured a flashback to when my daughter had her ears 

pierced, and the blood that seemed to pour from the opening.  I winced 

at the memory, and mentally shied away from the image of myself wearing 

earrings.



I scanned the room for distraction.



It was an odd mix of feminine frills and teenage clutter.  The room 

obviously belonged to a girl moving toward womanhood, yet clinging to 

the last vestiges of childhood.  There were stuffed animals on the bed, 

and cosmetics on the vanity.  I reached down and picked up a tube of 

"Kissable Kolors", a cherry flavored lipgloss; I cringed at the 

realization that at some point in time, I would be expected to wear this 

stuff, if I remained in this body.



No help here distracting myself from my situation.



Placing the tube down, I moved to the closet and opened the door.  A 

rainbow of colors and styles practically assaulted me.  The closet was 

filled with peasant dresses, halter tops, and bell-bottom jeans.  

Fashions I hadn't seen since high school.  Being a marketing analyst, I 

knew that the 1970's had made a comeback of sorts, and retro chic was 

big among the young women.  But this girl had gone a bit overboard.  At 

one end of the closet, clear dry cleaning bags contained some sort of 

colorful uniform.



Instead of examining the clothes further, I closed the closet door and 

continued to explore the room.  In a corner sat a stereo, which I had 

expected to find, but the stack of eight-track tapes strewn about the 

stereo stand struck me as odd.  Led Zeppelin, Grand Funk Railroad, 

David Cassidy -- all stars of the 70's -- and not a CD in sight.



Then came the real shocker, or at least another bombshell on top of the 

apparent sex change.  On the nightstand next to the alarm clock was an 

issue of Seventeen magazine, with a fresh mailing label made out to Amy 

Billings.  The date of the issue was March 1974.  Now everything was 

starting to make sense.  The Marcia Brady hairstyle, the wild clothing, 

the eight-tracks. 



Still, I needed more proof, so I turned on the old-fashioned "portable" 

television resting on the corner of the dresser.



The picture took a few moments to come into focus, but the message 

couldn't be any clearer as I watched the coverage of President Nixon's 

press conference unfold before my eyes.  Not only had I changed sex, but 

had somehow been transported back in time.



I turned the ancient TV off.  It was too much to absorb.  I'd been sort 

of aware of Nixon's troubles back when it first happened, but just now 

it seemed even farther away than it had then.  I had my own problems.



March, nineteen seventy-four.  Or it might be later, or didn't magazines 

date their issues months ahead of time sometimes?  How in the world 

could this have happened to me?



I felt small and weak and helpless.  The sort of power that could do 

what had been done to me was so far beyond anything I might have 

imagined could really exist that, that...my mind threatened to shatter, 

to descend into gibbering panic.  The analytical part of my thinking 

kept coming up with impossible results and so, seemed ready to just 

abandon the task.



I started crying, quietly at first, then with audible sobs.  Of course 

I'm crying, I thought.  I'm just a little girl, and it's the early 

seventies, it's okay to cry.  I sank to my knees on the floor.  At 

first I wrapped my arms around myself, but that compressed my new 

breasts and caused me even more distress.  So I clasped my hands above 

my head and knelt in my little teenage boudoir and cried my eyes out.



After five minutes or so, the door opened and Shirley Jones looked in 

and said, "What in the world?"  Well, she wasn't really Shirley Jones, 

I decided, but she sure looked a lot like her.  This struck me as funny, 

and I discovered that I was laughing in between sobs.  Giggling, really.  

The giggling fed on itself and I knew that full-blown hysteria was only 

a hiccough away.



"Amy, what's wrong?"  The woman quickly knelt beside me and took me in 

her arms.  This was nice, because she was soft and womanly and...

She patted me on the back and I instantly started feeling better.  Of 

course, I started crying again, too.  Weird.



"Mom?" I asked between sobs.  The woman must be Amy's mother, why else 

would she step into the room and take instant charge of me?



"I'm Marie, dear, but it's all right for you to call me Mom," said the 

woman.  She patted me affectionately.  "There, there," she added inanely.



Huh?  I thought.  She wasn't my Mom?  Amy's Mom?  Who was she?



Now an older man entered the room, a man about the age I'd been a few 

hours ago, or a few decades from now.  That shook me, too.  "Princess!" 

he said, and I felt my eyes widen.  Did I dare call him Dad?



"What's wrong?" he asked, kneeling only long enough to lift me to my 

feet.  I didn't have much choice, it was either stand or dangle.  He 

seemed so masculinely powerful, I felt stunned by his touch.



Marie answered.  "I think she woke up with a nightmare, Arthur.  Maybe 

about her mother."  She patted my arm, and the man gathered both of us 

in a big hug.  He smelt different than I remembered other men smelling.  

Then I remembered I'd never really thought about how men smelled before.



I must have gurgled or something about then.  The two of them made a 

production of comforting me, and I did feel oddly comforted.  Loved even.  

It felt weird.  I didn't remember my parents treating me quite the same 

way when I'd been a teenager.  I mean, Arthur, presumably Amy's father, 

started talking babytalk at me.



"My widdle pwincess had a nightmare?" he asked.  He shook his head 

playfully.  "Is the princess feeling better?  Would Amykins like a 

little num-num?  Want Marie to make us all some breakfast?" My tummy 

gurgled emptily at the thought of food.



Was this Amy whose life I had fallen into a bit simple-minded?  Or did 

doting fathers commonly talk to teenage daughters like that?  "Breakfast 

sounds good," I managed to say.



"If she can eat, she'll live," said another voice.  I looked past Arthur 

and Marie to see another girl, an older girl maybe eighteen or twenty, 

standing in the doorway.  An older sister?  Who?



Everyone laughed, and I even felt an embarrassed and embarrassing giggle 

escape my own lips.  Arthur kissed me on the cheek, and his unshaven 

whiskers rasped against my delicate skin.  I hadn't felt a touch like 

that since I was very small, and my father stopped kissing me.



I noticed a young boy in the hallway outside my room, too.  A boy 

perhaps ten or eleven, the age my own son had been.  "Amy," the boy said 

disapprovingly, "you're practically naked!"



Marie stood and hurried out of the room.  "What are you doing up so 

early, Brian?" she scolded the boy.  Brian?  The boy's name was Brian?  

Marie towed him out of sight.



"Everyone else was up and making noise," the boy protested.



"Pam, you want to help your sister make breakfast?" Arthur asked.  Now 

I was really confused.  Pam was whose sister, Amy's?  Marie's?



"Let me stay and talk with Amy," said the girl called Pam.  She looked 

a lot like Marie, but younger and better built, a voluptuous body in a 

clinging polyester robe.



"Okay," said Arthur.  "It'll be okay if you miss practice this morning, 

sugar," he said to me.  Practice? 



Then he gave me a last reassuring pat on the arm and squeezed past Pam 

in the doorway, seeming to enjoy the process.  Who wouldn't, I thought?



Pam closed the door behind him and turned to me, grimacing.  Her lush 

body in the revealing robe ought to have been doing something to my 

libido, but I felt hardly a stirring.  I'm a girl now, I thought, she's 

a girl, it wouldn't work.



"You are such a fuckhead," she said suddenly.



"Pardon?" I squeaked.  My voice really sounded odd to me.



She shook her head, rich dark golden curls tickling her shoulders, and 

brushing against the tops of breasts that seemed about to overflow her 

robe.  My brand new little girl libido did seem about to stir a bit.



"You're Brian Matthews," she said flatly.  "I'm Janice Lincoln."



My boss.  The one with the pet demon.  She'd been transferred too!