I Succubus

Do you know what it is to be summoned?

It's a soft, slow, gentle pull that begins almost imperceptibly and then increases, and increases, and increases, until you feel as if you're being sucked through a straw by a giant. There are ways to resist, and ways to evade, and ways to delay, but I had no interest in such trickery this time.

This time I was being called upon to do what I would revel in doing anyway.

This time I was being called upon to hunt, and that I was being called upon as mice call upon a cat only made the summons more entertaining, and the result more delicious to contemplate.

The weak may seek to control the strong, but when they do they play with fire.

The strong are the fire, and they fear no control.

I returned to my quarters and prepared myself in advance. I oiled my crimson skin until it gleamed, looking as smooth and supple as it was, nearly demanding touch. My hair I wore short, a tradition from the times when I was human, and roamed the deserts as a warrior. Long hair could serve then as a handicap, a sign of overconfidence, an easy target for an enemy's grasping hands. I'd permitted it to grow after becoming a succubus, thinking it added to my allure, and perhaps it did but it was a manifestation of my overconfidence, overconfidence that had twice led to my downfall.

Now I wore it short, and when my master had seen it thus he had nodded, in approval or acknowledgement or something else, I cannot say.

I dressed in a soft, short dress, black fabric of a kind so thin and fine that it felt like wearing water and flowed over my body like a second skin, clinging everywhere I wanted it to cling and showing off everything I wanted to show off. Some succubi prefer to be naked at all times, and there are times for that, but my power was like a blade stored in a sheath. Drawing it forth was a demonstration and a declaration, and of a type that frightened the weak and enticed the strong.

The weak do not concern me, but the strong are worth considering.

I was prepared.

I was ready.

And I felt the summoning's tug.

I took a moment then, a moment to appreciate what was about to begin. There's a feeling before battle, a feeling of coiled tension waiting to be unleashed, a moment warriors know as well as they know themselves, and that moment should be savored, if only briefly. I closed my eyes, let myself indulge in the anticipation, and then...

...then I opened my eyes and smiled.

And I let the summoning take me.

There is much to be learned from how you are summoned, and where. Some skilled magicians can summon you directly into chains, or other encumbrances. Others summon you into pits or traps, designed to leave you helpless. Still others summon you in ways that tell you what sort of entrance they wish you to make, into a pool of water to emerge dripping and eager, or into a cave to emerge blinking into the light.

Not these, though, these magicians clearly wanted me seen from the moment of my summoning. I wasn't here to make an entrance on my own behalf, but to demonstrate their power, and that which was intended as a show of strength for their master was a show of weakness to me.

A summoning takes no great strength, but ensuring that your summon stays within a protective circle does, and these magi were wanting in that regard.

Not that I could simply stride out, but they had limited their circle to preventing me from leaving. They had done nothing to prevent me from reaching out with my words and with my mind, and this was stupidity made manifest.

The circle was wide across, thirty paces or so, and was inscribed into one end of a temple to some god or other. The space was sunk into the bare rock of the place, and surrounded by seating for the faithful, or for those who wished to observe the ceremonies, and the seating was well-packed today for succubi always tend to draw crowds.

I arrived standing, a choice of my own. Arrive kneeling and you send one message, arrive sprawling and you send another, but I wished to show strength, and confidence, and power.

There was a ripple of surprise as I arrived, and interest, and the crowd murmured to itself, and I observed them casually, taking care not to show too great an interest. There were a wide variety of creatures there, demon and human and more, but the only ones on whom my gaze lingered were the demon-prince and his consort.

He was tall and muscular, grey of skin and green of eye, and he looked at me with interest he tried to hide behind a mask of detachment.

He was a poor actor, but it didn't matter. Succubi can sense desire, and his flared to life the moment he saw me. I could feel his lust, felt my own in turn, wanting to savor his life, wanting to swallow his soul, both because my master had commanded it and because I had been so long without feeding.

He, though, was not the interesting one.

His consort was.

She was slender, and short, and human, with golden skin much-kissed by the sun, and she should have been frightened to be surrounded by demons, but she was not.

She was angry, and her anger was masked far better than his lust, and pulsed far more intensely.

Anger in the weak is no concern of the strong, but something in her told me that this one was no weakling, and if she was not yet in a position to have her way she had no intention of remaining subjugated forever.

She wore a white gown, modestly cut but tightly stitched, so that a demure garment became a sensual study. There was a tiara on her head, to mark her as powerful, but a collar on her throat, to mark her as property. Her eyes were blue, and flashed with the emotions her face masked so admirably.

My prospective victim was chained to the altar behind me, but I paid him no mind, not yet. He was incidental to my goals, though my ravenous hunger whispered in the darker recesses of my mind.

Instead I reached out with my mind and whispered to her.

"Hello, friend," I said into her mind.

Her eyes widened slightly but she gave no further evidence of having heard, which impressed me. It is difficult to keep your wits when another's mind touches yours unexpectedly, but her face was placid and calm, even with no eyes upon her but mine.

"Hello," she said, speaking the words inside her mind. "How can you speak to me through the circle?"

A man approached the barrier of the summoning circle and spoke. His voice was high, and reedy, and sought to command me, and it was a struggle not to laugh in his face. This man may have been a sorceror, but he had the bearing of a peasant and the presence of an anthill.

"This man," I sent to her mind, "is not nearly so wise as he thinks. And you are not nearly so helpless as you were before."

She was silent for a time, then, and her face gave nothing away. The crowd was growing restive, wanting their show to begin, and the pipsqueak mage in front of me was growing louder and more angry, looking for all the world like an angry bug in fancy robes. He gestured, and a length of glowing rope formed in his hand.

His intent was clear. He meant to use that feeble spell to command me.

I lifted my chin, baring my throat to him. It was meant as a challenge, and the murmur of the crowd said they saw it as such. Certainly he did, for his face flushed and he snarled and whipped his wrist forward, sending the rope through the circle at me.

The rope moved slowly.

I did not.

I looked carefully at his spell, reached out with my mind, and found that he had ensorcelled the tip to go where he bade, but had not so treated the rest of the rope, leaving it vulnerable to anyone with the wit to look.

Weakness. Foolishness. Carelessness.

I waited until it breached the barrier then reached out and caught it in one hand just behind the questing tip and hauled, drawing it taut and pulling hard.

He had not been prepared for that, and found himself being dragged forward, the rope fastened around his wrist serving as a leash. His eyes went from surprised to horrified as he was dragged bodily through the barrier, the barrier meant to keep me in but not to keep anyone else out.

Foolishness. Magic is a weapon, like any other, and weapons ill-used can be as dangerous to their wielder as their foe. Warriors who forget this once seldom have the chance to forget it a second time.

He was speaking as he was pulled through the barrier, trying to banish me or summon a ward or something else, I know not what, and I silenced him by bringing my lips to his and letting my venom seep in. This was no warm kiss, no soft melding of lips, this was hard, and strong, and overwhelming, and he twitched and shivered as my lust overpowered his resistance and overrode his mind.

There was an outcry from the crowd, surprise and fear and interest and more, and I paid it little mind. Instead I reached out to the consort and whispered to her, whispered while still holding the mage in my deadly embrace.

"Do you wish him to live?" I sent to her.

"No," she responded, and the word was hard and cold and final in my mind.

An entire crowd was roiling in shock but she was not. She was certain.

Certainty in the midst of chaos is strength in a place of weakness.

I raised one hand, letting claws extend, and brought it down, shredding the front of his robe, exposing his manhood. He was proudly erect, my venom having done its work well, and I could feel his lust and need, and my own.

It had been a long time since I'd fed, and it's always satisfying to prey upon one who thought to command me, and knowing that a second prize lay behind me, chained to the altar, only added to my anticipation.

I threw him to the ground before me, and he landed on his back. He tried to scrabble away, but his movements were slow and his mind was addled and I was upon him before he made more than the feeblest efforts, standing over him, looking down with a predatory smile.

"Mercy," he whispered.

"Mercy is the gift of the strong," I purred, sinking to my knees between his legs, one hand encircling his cock, holding it steady. "Not the demand of the weak."

He opened his mouth to speak again, but I was done with his words. I leaned in, parted my lips, and descended upon his manhood, taking it deep into my mouth and lashing him with pleasure, letting my venom sink into his cock directly, letting my long tongue wrap around it and squeeze, rippling warmly, wetly up his length.

He was struggling to hold on, to forestall his climax, and I refused to permit him this dignity, brushing aside his control and spurring his lust on, forcing him to his pleasure almost instantly.

He cried out then, feeling his downfall, knowing that he was lost, and I did not stop.

To drain a man slowly is a gift, the warmest pleasure he could ever know, but this creature did not deserve that gift. This pipsqueak sought to control me, this weakling intended to collar and bind me, and for one this lacking in power to presume so far above his station was an insult that deserved to be returned in kind.

He writhed on the ground as I drained him, swallowing his essence and not permitting him to stop, not as his cock throbbed and ached, his balls emptied, his body surrendered to pleasure. I reached into his mind and forced him to remain erect, forced his lust not to flag, forced him cruelly towards another climax.

He looked down at me, his eyes wide with panic and shock, realizing then what I intended to do, and how powerless he was to prevent it. I lifted my lips from his member only briefly, long enough to speak a single sentence.

"Your mistress could have saved you," I whispered, my voice so low only he could hear, "and chose not to."

He gasped then, and turned to look at the consort, who met his gaze with a pitiless stare. I know not what had passed between them that she would throw his life away thus, but whatever it was was contained in his desperation and her refusal.

Then I brought my lips down again and he had more pressing concerns to occupy his mind for the brief remnant of his life.

The crowd had settled down, some enjoying the show's unexpected turn and some enjoying this man's downfall and some simply enjoying the sight of a succubus at work. There were ribald jests and nervous laughter and the occasional cheer and I paid it all little mind.

I had more important things to focus on.

His cock pulsed in my mouth, ready to erupt again when I commanded it, and I commanded it, and he arched his back and howled as his pleasure was drawn forth long before he was prepared. He was whimpering and he was shuddering and I reached out and tugged at his soul, drawing it down, down to his cock, and he felt it preparing itself to release into my grasp.

I could have made it more pleasurable for him, could have waited, could have drawn it out, could have given him time to recover, and I did not. I used my pleasure as a cudgel, rather than as a balm, lashing him with it rather than embracing him with it, and he cried out in an unendurable mix of joy and regret, lust and despair, as I drained him, sucking his soul up, up, up, and into my warm, wet mouth.

He felt it leave his body, stared wildly down at me, and I pulled my head up, met his gaze, and swallowed it down, let the black fires within me consume it whole, and his last moment was of pleasure-laced terror as he paid the price for his weakness, for his arrogance, for his presumption.

Then his head fell back and he lay, soulless and lifeless and still, upon the cold stone floor.

There was silence in the chamber then, the silence of a crowd stunned by what they'd seen. They'd expected to see me feast upon a helpless prisoner and instead had seen the sorceror who'd summoned me led to his doom. No few of them cast dubious eyes on the circle that held me at bay, and the sorceror's acolytes conferred among themselves, glancing at their former master with fear in their eyes.

I spared them no more than a passing glance. Mice led by a weevil were worth no more than that.

Instead I looked to the demon-prince and his consort and gently inclined my head, bowing from the neck. It could have been a mark of respect, and was taken as such, but the purpose it served was to reassure and calm. The crowd had been growing restive, and a panic breaking out would have served me poorly.

It was time to give them something else to focus on.

I raised my hands to my shoulders and slid my dress down slowly, taking my time. I could have torn it asunder and been naked in a moment but the crowd needed to be lured back to quiescence, not dragged there. The fabric descended, revealing my breasts, then moving lower, lower, catching around my waist until I lowered my hands and slid it to the floor, leaving me completely unclothed, my oiled red skin gleaming, my body on full display.

There were appreciative sounds from the crowd, but I cared not for their interest. I cared only for the demon-prince's...and his consort's.

He certainly seemed interested, his eyes drinking me in, but her interest ran much deeper. She barely showed it, a slight widening of the eyes, a gentle tremble of the lips, but those signs on a face schooled to immobility were powerful signals of well-hidden desires. She met my eyes for a moment, and in that moment she saw that I knew what I had seen, and a blush bloomed on her cheeks, radiant color on that golden-hued skin.

I turned slowly, giving the crowd a good look as I pivoted to face my victim, my tail dancing behind me. He lay helpless on the altar, heavy chains attached to manacles at his wrists and ankles, and he stared at me with mixed emotions. He'd witnessed what I'd just done, of course, and feared that his own fate would be as painful. I could sense his lust, and his terror, and both were my allies in that moment, for it was not merely him that I had to conquer.

I was playing for much higher stakes than that.

I knelt beside the altar and reached out to stroke the side of his face gently, soothingly. His lust called to me, and I hungered for it, for it had been long since I'd fed and one rushed draining had only whetted my appetite, but I held myself back for the moment. The crowd needed to be seduced, to lust for me, to hunger for me, and to bring them to that point required that I show tenderness, and restraint, and so I did.

His eyes were wide, his breathing ragged. He'd been within the circle when I'd fed, and to be a succubus is to radiate lust, especially when feeding. He was eager, and he was terrified, and he was doomed, and he knew it. I leaned in to press a tender kiss to the side of his face, and another to the corner of his mouth, letting my venom seep in slowly, letting it overtake his mind softly.

He moaned at that, turned his head to look up at me, and I met his lips with my own, kissing him slowly, building from gentle to passionate, a lover's kiss more than a conqueror's, and by the time the kiss broke he had surrendered to me.

He relaxed back onto the altar, his muscles unclenching, his breathing coming under control, and I moved, kissing slowly down his body, tenderly, softly, making sure to show my body to best advantage to the crowd. My lips left a trail of venomous kisses as I moved, and I could feel him being drawn further and further into the embrace of desire. He could not escape me, chained as he was, but the more I worked on him the less that was any concern. In truth, even if the manacles had fallen free and I'd stood back I doubt he would have tried to escape. He was mine, and he knew it.

My lips came to his manhood, and I teased it slowly, luxuriantly, deliberately drawing a contrast between the cruelty I'd inflicted on the feeble sorceror and the pleasures I gave to this man. My lips wrapped around the side of his cock, my long tongue extended out and wrapped around and around it and squeezed warmly, wetly, deliciously, making him throb, making him ache for release and relief, release and relief that I held him back from briefly.

I wanted him to enjoy it, and I wanted the crowd to appreciate it, and so I worked him up until his lust was nearly boiling within him, until his cock was twitching in my hand and his body was quivering beneath me, and only then did I move up, part my lips, and descend upon him, moving down onto his cock until it was deep in my throat, and with a thought I bid him climax, and he did.

His back arched, his body tensed, he let out a long, low, soulful moan, and he came hard, spurting his seed deep into my throat, and I drank it down, swallowing around him wetly, letting my mouth urge him on, inflicting pleasures beyond his wildest expectations, until he was temporarily spent, spent and gasping.

And still alive.

I could've drawn everything from him as I had the sorceror, but this man had given me no insult, shown me no arrogance. True, he was weak enough to be left out for me like a fatted calf, but though that made him my prey it did not make him my enemy.

So I swallowed his seed and drew back, letting his half-hard cock pop free from my mouth, and I moved in over him, lying atop him, pressing my warm, eager, oiled body into his, squirming and writhing atop him and putting on a show for the crowd, the crowd that had begun to murmur in appreciation.

This was the show they had been promised, and it was more and better than they'd expected.

"Poor little human," I whispered, stroking his brow tenderly. "You're doomed. But I'll make your end more pleasurable than you could've dreamed."

There was fear in his eyes, but also longing, need mingling with surrender.

"Please," he whispered, his voice hoarse, tinged with lust, barely able to form words.

"Oh, prey," I purred, shifting my hips, drawing my dripping, eager sex along the underside of his rigid cock, "begging won't save you. Nothing at all can save you now."

"No," he moaned, visibly struggling to focus, struggles not helped by my wicked gyrations.