Smiles The Devil
One friend visits another, with transformative effects. Dedicated to Swatcher Poole
SMILES THE DEVIL
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I arrived at Darren's house at noon. I'd been here a thousand times by now, though never this early in the day. I was used to being invited over in the evening for one of the homeowner's parties or gatherings, heavy transformative affairs, or at the very least most of them were
Darren's parties were always unpredictable affairs, usually leaving the attendees in unusual new shapes and guises. I could tell you at length about the one where I spent the whole event as a piano thanks to the cunning use of sonic triggers by the host. I think it was his idea of a prank, but actually it was a real eye-opener. Having everyone in the party play you at some point, you find out there's a wealth of sensations and emotions that can be wrung out of the piano's life, especially erotic ones. We had some real virtuosos in the room, a really skilled and delicate touch that would have you swooning. Well, emotionally. My piano legs didn't do any melting being solid maple and such. But it was bliss all the same, as close to any orgasm as wood and metal and ivory can get and easily better than some I've had as flesh and blood. And then you'd get the, er, less gifted performers. It could get ugly I can tell you. The more duff the note, the more clumsy the hand, the worse it could feel. Mostly it wasn't *painful* as such, it was just like being in bed with a hamfisted lover. The worst were those who were less gifted but sure in their minds that they were the virtuosos. You've all been to bed with them, I know I have. No idea what to do. Sure that if they're getting their rocks off then you must be too
So that's my experience as a piano, and I suppose technically my major experience of being in an orgy. I should find out what those sonic triggers are in case there's a concert pianists' convention sometime. Three days as a grand piano would be pretty sweet, and I could sleep in the grand hall rather than springing for a hotel room
Tonight wasn't a party so far as I was aware however, but I'd been invited over regardless and since Darren had left the front door unlocked I simply stepped right in. I called out for him but without a response, checked the rooms downstairs and then went up. I imagined if he was anywhere he must be in bed. Heaven knew he liked to sleep in late on the weekends
The bedroom had dozens of masks and full-bodied costumes arranged on stands and racks, not to mention the body paints and other prosthetics packed into draws and cabinets. Darren always had an especial love for those transformations that had a character to them, an identity one could play with. Darren himself was lying on the bed, stripped naked and apparently asleep, and since I wasn't concerned with his modesty and didn't think he cared much either, I made to go wake him up. I stopped when I realised his face was missing
The sight was a new one for me, not a look I'd have expected him to go for. The man loved a good and vivid expression, the idea of him lacking even eyes was hard to fathom. But I wasn't kept in the darkness for very long, as a distinctive voice cleared its throat and spoke to me. "I'm over here, old thing"
I turned to look at a row of masks, various animals and monsters and a bright red, horned and leering devil whose grin spread much wider as I watched. "Hello there," he chuckled. "Ah, you couldn't help me out could you? I thought I was done for the day with this mask but he doesn't seem to be done with me. Put me back on myself, would you?"
"Certainly can," I replied blithely as I took the latex head off its stand, feeling it flop and collapse in my hands despite its animated state, and fitted it onto the faceless man spreadeagled on the bed. It took a moment, but I watched the devil's face change first to a mask of concentration, then one of delight as he merged back into place. The red flesh merged into the pink body that began darkening to match the skintone, the colour spreading downwards rapidly. He shuddered and groaned a little, obviously enjoying the process as it overtook him, lifting his buttocks to allow the classic spiked tale to curl out from underneath and then dropping back down as his feet creaked and distorted, toes merging into goatish hooves. It never stopped being a fascinating show
The most striking change came over his crotch. You may think that in becoming a devil Darren had suddenly gained a bigger dick, but it wasn't anything so straightforward. Instead the devil was indeed as big as an arm, because an arm was what he now had. The face broke out into a throaty laugh as he tugged and squeezed at his face and tweaked his tall ebony horns, making sure it was snugly attached to his body whilst the third hand flexed its fingers. "Okay, all good," he concluded as he stroked the goatee beard he was sporting, the lower hand giving a thumbs up and theatrically turning to scratch the devil's belly
"I'm glad to hear it," I replied as neutrally as I could muster. "Nice arm you have there"
"Oh! Thank you!" He grinned, wider than any normal face could manage. He had full black lips that complemented the hellish red of his skin nicely. "Well, you know what they say about third legs, it seemed long overdue for a little conceptual overhaul"
I couldn't help laughing at that, we both did, any tension or pretense dissipating. "So Darren, or His Satanic Majesty if you like, did you just call me up to shake hands?"
"Oh no no no," he tutted, a wicked glint in his eyes, "you know I would never call on a friend for something so crass! No, I've got something much more interesting I want to show you!"
The devil strutted over to the writing desk, the one surface in his bedroom not obscured by some costumery or other, and took a rather battered-looking circular tin out of a drawer. He didn't give me a closer look, he just cracked it open and took out a plastic spool, beginning to pull out a length of ribbon from it. "You see," he continued as he returned to me, "I happen to have this here, which came to me from a friend of a friend, and it occurred to me whilst I'm in my devilish mood that, as one writer to another, you might be interested in it." He glanced up at me suggestively, then as his lower arm waved close to me, flirting with me but never quite touching, he snapped the last of the ribbon free from its spool. With a chuckle and a knowing smile he whirled the strip of fabric around my head playfully before finally draping it around my head and shoulders as he asked, "are you interested?"
"I think it's a bit of a moot point now isn't it Darren?" I replied with a cocked eyebrow
"Ah, it's a fair cop," he grinned
I knew full well the act of draping the ribbon on me was this fiendish devil's trigger for the main event. I felt the change coming over me before I really knew what was going on. Somehow they always started with my teeth, probably because I have more teeth to work with than any other body part. I felt them reshape and rearrange themselves, forming 32 keys as other numerous body parts shifted to join them, arms and legs and torso being absorbed into my distorting head, fingers and toes forming the remaining keys. I'm sure I'm making it sound uncomfortable or disturbing, but trust me, the feeling was really quite pleasurable. Having my entire body reconcentrated into the new form was somewhere between an endorphin rush and a zen calm, all my usual bodily obligations vanishing, mechanical parts forming instead inside me as I continued to shrink down onto the floor
I could tell what I was, self-awareness coming back sharply. I'd become a typewriter, I was certain I was one of those hefty film noir classics. Darren always picked the option he thought had the most style. Clearly the ribbon was typewriter ribbon. From the floor, in the space where man-me had been standing, I could see him stood over me. The transformations never took my outer senses away. He smiled down wickedly, his pointed tail swishing back and forth with delight, his crotch-arm wiggling its fingers in an exaggerated 'hello!'
The Darren-devil knelt and picked me up, his black and shiny lips breaking from a sassy pout into a wide grin. "Now I know I'm no great author, but what say we try writing something?"
I had no vocal cords to speak any more, but instinctively I felt my keys working automatically, writing my response on the sheet of paper sticking out of my former head. 'Sure. Type away.'
He grinned even wider and set me down at the desk, stroking a finger down the side of my metal casing. I expected him to sit down on the chair, but he casually shoved it out of his way and stood in front of me with a dramatic fingersnap on that third hand. What happened next was a hell of a sight even by Darren's standards. I'd watched him turn into a cow, a space alien and Father Christmas on different occasions, but now the devil smiled lewdly, salivated almost as that perverse arm sticking out of his crotch creaked and groaned and edged over to the side as a second arm pushed its way out. He had two of them soon enough, his normal pair coquettishly folded behind his back as the lower pair waved at me theatrically like Al Jolson. "And so," he smiled, "we shall begin..."
The devil's hands rested themselves on my keys, stroked lightly over them for a moment or two as if Darren was choosing the exact opening sentence in his great novel. I could feel the fingers as they touched each key in turn, could taste and smell them too. Not the clichéd sulphur and brimstone of Hell, it was like a mixture of both the rubberiness of the devil mask and the faint saltiness of skin, such that even though his touch felt like flesh there was no sure way of discerning between costume and wearer. Combined with my own novel new body it was making me feel intoxicated, and then with a decisive stroke the devil began:
'I've never known just how to start writing a story, for all the stories I've written... One begins with an idea for what you'd like to happen in that story, especially if it's a sexual story, and of course it can be terribly easy to write that particular part. But what of all the little details around it? Particularly that opening line?'
He didn't speak, all his words coming out on my paper as the mouth hummed a little and licked its lips, eyes flashing with a little fire as befitted a classic red devil such as himself. I was already tingling from his work, the sensations from his deft tapping passing through my mind, each key subtly different in erotic harmonies
'Of course', the hands continued, pushing my carriage back into place to start a new line and sending ripples of stimulation through me, 'sometimes you can get away with something a little clichéd, something abrupt and immediate such as "I arrived at Darren's house at noon," but you can't write a whole story with just some well-worn gimmicks and a sex scene."
His claim not to be an author was a lie. His prose felt good, his touch felt good, for all that he was a devil I was in heaven right then. I knew he was enjoying himself too, black tongue flickering, body moving like a serpent, voice hissing low as he carried on typing
'Sometimes the best way is just to throw yourself into the work, letting it flow through you like a primal instinct.'
I understood him all too well, mind racing and filling up with the rush of his work. I couldn't easily indulge in any primal instincts in my inanimate state, but I didn't need to. I was the vehicle for his thoughts through the raw text he was pouring out through me, even more vivid and overpowering than the notes of the piano had been. I could feel his pleasure mixing with my own. If I'd been human I would've been shaking by now, but instead my mechanisms continued clicking and clacking amidst the devil's sporadically slamming the carriage home again, my own groans of pleasure to mix in with the wordless utterances that were balancing out his writing
'The art of it is to give your audience something they can connect to,' the words continued, 'something from which they can draw the same pleasure that you give yourself, or even more! And as an artist I sincerely hope my audience is feeling pleasure. Are you? I do hope it feels good for you, as good as it feels for me... They do say you have one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in your fingers after all!'
I couldn't reply since Darren was using my voice, but it felt indescribable in any case, the combination of the purely physical thrill and the touch of those warm fingers on ever-changing combinations of letters blending with the devil's mind passing through me in his words. As if he were teasing me over my lack of mouth, I watched the ecstatic demon's own begin to split, upper and lower lip separating and dividing until he was sporting two mouths, one atop the other. He looked straight down at me, both mouths smiling widely, eagerly, even more devilish than that burning light in his eyes. I don't think he'd ever looked better in that moment, nor ever more at home in one of his borrowed identities. I couldn't take it any more, losing it in that instant
Climaxing as a typewriter wouldn't have looked like anything that an outsider could recognise as an orgasm, a jumble of mixed-case letters ending with my keys jamming, leaving me temporarily speechless, figuratively catching my breath I guess until Darren helpfully untangled me. But the way it felt was like an eruption, the gears and workings and even the sheet of paper feeling electrified, every inch of my alien body ringing with pleasure for a few moments. Above me the devil shuddered and his typing hands reflexively gripped and clasped each other tightly, both mouths gasping with pleasure as he reached his own strange conclusion. Finally he flopped forwards, steadying himself with all four hands on the desk
"And that," he smiled as he stroked my casing once more, "is how we write erotica!"
* * *
I elected to take a shower after I'd been returned to my former anthropomorphic glory. Darren was perched on the end of the bed when I came back, both mouths still grinning. He was busy with the humidor he usually kept on his desk, taking out an expensive-looking Cuban cigar and cutting it before pressing one end into his devilish palm. Of course when he removed his hand the end was lit nicely. He grinned again and put it in his upper mouth to inhale. "You know me old thing, I do like a good cigar now and again," the lower mouth explained before exhaling smoke
I was more concerned with the devil's crotch than his smoking habits. His additional arms had disappeared, bizarrely replaced by a chrome faucet. I didn't say a word, I just raised an eyebrow at him. He smirked in response as he puffed again, delighted in himself as ever. "I saw it once in a painting," he explained, "seemed like it might be amusing. Can I interest you in a glass of water?"
"I hope you won't be offended if I pass on that"
"No, I can't say I blame you," he chuckled before lighting me a cigar