For lack of a better term, I will call him my Lover. I call him Grae, which sounds like "gray" if you are doing a rather poor impersonation of a Scotsman. Not that I have anything against the Scots; that's just as close as I have been able to come to pronouncing his real name. You would think that since I spend so much time working my throat around his cock that I could work it around his language, too. Unfortunately, I can't; and my expertise at the former, and lack of at the latter both tend to cause Grae a certain amount of ridicule among his kind.
Grae is not human, although he looks like he is. I label him "male" but he doesn't look it. I used to label myself "gay" but that doesn't matter much anymore. I'm not really Grae's lover either; what I am is his concubine. And I am the first one any of his people have ever had.
When I am at my most cynical, I think his ideals are what attract me to Grae. It's not that he has the most beautiful cock that I have known, as well as a lovely pair of tits. It's not that he provides for me, keeps me in a state above that to which I have become accustomed; it's not even the caring and respect I receive from him, which is rare enough in our own kind, let alone theirs. It's because he is trying to change the course of his entire people. I love him because he is a hero. Or a fucking Prophet.
When I am at my most sentimental, I love him because I am having his baby.
* * *
Grae's people aren't as much a secret as they could be, but, like all things that are different, that are outside our limited understanding of the universe, they have been demonized. The legends that have been spawned by his people aren't as common as the evening bloodsuckers, or the moon beasts, or the spirits of those who won't pass from this world. But you have probably still heard the stories. I can tell you that they aren't as slanderous as they ought to be.
All of his kind are comely ladies in appearance, or so he tells me. The two others I have met seem to confirm this claim. They have the strength of ten men. They can't be killed by many conventional means. When aroused they grow gorgeous rock hard cocks right out of their clits. Their proclivity is to rape, and they have been known to fuck people to death.
However, they are not immortal. They aren't spawned from the loins of Satan himself. Although large, their cocks are not two feet long and as wide as your fist. They don't have an aversion to churches, holy water, crosses, silver, running water or any of that spiritual mumbo jumbo. They don't prefer virgins or impure women or, in fact, women of any kind. They fuck men. And they fuck them well if I may say so. We call them Incubus. It amuses them to have taken that name for their own. You see, they call us incubators.
* * *
When I met Grae I thought he was just an ordinary fag hag. You don't see many women in the places I used to hang out at, and those you do see almost always fall into that category. Of course, fag hags usually come in with their special friends, have their fun, and go home to their superstraight men. Grae came in alone.
It's very lucky for me that I was having rather bad luck that evening. I was sitting alone at the bar when he sat down next to me. I was trying to decide whether to tell her to fuck off or to just move on myself when she leaned into me to wave at the barman.
They say pheromones are a very powerful attractant, and I'll have to agree. I got one whiff of a pissy sweaty smell, and my mouth was watering, my asshole spasmed, and my cock got rock hard so fast I swear it almost broke. She watched me reach down and adjust myself into a slightly more comfortable position, and a quiet smirk spread across her face.
She got a beer from the barman, and paid for it, and stayed right on top of me the whole time. I kept breathing that scent, and it grew and changed. I could smell oiled leather, and ballsweat, and precome, and I just knew that this girl was the sexiest man alive. If she'd looked anything like a man I would have already been on my knees begging to be used in the best way I know how. As it was, I could hardly respond when she spoke to me.
"I know you." She dropped her hand to my lap, slid it down the length of my cock and grabbed my balls. Even through my jeans I could feel the strength of her hand. The jolt of that touch alone was nearly enough to make me come. As it was, it did make me groan loud enough to earn a disapproving glance from the bartender, but I didn't fucking care.
"You need to be overpowered. You need to be thrown down on the bed, have your ass fucked until you eyes strain from their sockets and your throat is dry from panting and raw from screaming. You want to be shaped, twisted, bent. Used."
I cleared my throat enough to force out a response. "Tied down."
She arched an eyebrow.
"You left that out. I like to be tied down while I get fucked."
She growled a deep purring laugh, fully satisfied. She squeezed my balls again, and the fabric of my jeans tore where she pulled at the crotch. She smiled that quiet smirk again and stood up. "Come with me."
And I did.
* * *
I remember little of the cab ride to his apartment. His scent was overpowering and I felt drugged. My body was jittery and excited, but my mind was a bit sluggish. I remember him whispering dirty sexy things in my ear, but not the words themselves. They didn't register that night anyway, but the sound of his voice was both soothing and arousing.
He paid the cabby when we arrived, and I followed him up to his apartment. It is a spacious two bedroom with both a formal dining room and a breakfast nook. The furnishings all looked expensive and authentic, lots of hardwood and leather upholstery. Walls and shelves filled with art and artifact. Real china to eat on, and real silver to eat with. Of course I didn't see any of it that night.
As soon as he closed the door behind us, he wrapped one powerful arm around me from behind. Holding me by the jaw with one hand he forced my face around to the right, making me lock eyes with him. Keeping that same quiet smirk on his face, he used his free hand to tear off my shirt, jeans and shorts. As my cock sprang free, he grabbed it, squeezing and pulling, compelling me to arch my back and rise up on my toes. A loud groan escaped my lips, and his smirk got a little less quiet.
He leaned down to gather up the ragged scraps of my clothes and dragged me into his living room. He led me to a padded leather ottoman and pushed me down onto it. Quickly ripping my shirt into strips, he tied me to the legs of the ottoman at the wrists and knees. My cock was trapped between my belly and the padded top, but my balls hung free. He pulled on them for a moment while he stroked my ass with his other hand. Then one wet finger pushed inside my asshole and snaked around. I could almost hear his smirk getting louder.
He walked around in front of me and pulled my face up again to look at him. He began to disrobe and his scent got stronger as he removed his clothes. Then he sank into a chair and spread his legs for me. He had what I think of as a normal looking cunt, but he was totally hairless and fluid was fairly bubbling out of it. Then it slowly began to change. The lips began to spread themselves, opening as his cunt turned inside out. His scrotum dropped down. It was pinkish and dripping with his juice, and seemed more solid than any other nutsac I have seen. A soft triangle of flesh crowned his slit; his clit, I supposed. I'd guessed that's where you'd normally find one. Then his clit flowered open, the bottom, ruffled edge curling up and out, and the bud of his cockhead appeared. His beautiful cock grew. It too was pinkish and the skin was puckered and lined, like that of a hardened nipple. And it was coated and dripping fluid throughout its length. With a supreme effort, I tore my eyes away from it and looked up to his face.
