in the Seventies
by Lainie Lee and Brian Matthews
Chapters 1 and 2
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.
by Lainie Lee and Brian Matthews
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.
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.
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!
Copyright 1999 by Elaine Blankenship and Brian Matthews. All Rights Reserved.
Chapters 1 & 2 or Chapters 3 & 4 or Chapters 5 & 6 or Chapter 7