An Incubus's Guilty Pleasure

Content info and warnings:

This story is about a human/incubus cisgender M/M relationship.

It takes place in a universe where humans know about demons/incubuses, but they're still rare, partly because of their ability to look human when they want to.

It contains representations of: homophobia, strong language, sexually explicit (obviously).

All characters represented are over the age of 18.

Enjoy!

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My name is Sy. I'm an incubus, in short, a demon of sexual energy, living in the best city in the world for my kind, Los Angeles. I'm able to feed off the sexual energy of anyone who's recently been aroused. So basically, as long as I stay near any group of living people, I will stay fed, but that doesn't mean I'm satisfied. I mean, are human's happy just staying fed? You can stay fed on just vegetables or just rice, but are you happy? Doubtful. Everyone has a favorite food. A favorite indulgence.

A guilty pleasure.

And he was mine.

I'm twenty-eight now. I started to develop my "type" in my early twenties, although I realized I preferred men a lot earlier. Not that I don't feed from women, or enjoy their company, but when it comes to feeding through touching or sex, it's just not as enjoyable as with men. I supposed you could call me gay, plenty of people have, but since I'm not even technically human, I haven't really bothered with labels. Unless it benefits me. But my type is much more specific than just men. No, my preference is those deeply closeted alpha males who have been lying to themselves for so long they'll be swearing to high heaven they're straight even as they're sinking hilt deep into your asshole.

You know the one's, the guys who called you fag in the hallway between classes because your hair was too long or because you sat too close to your guy friends, but even as they mocked you, their eyes stayed on you just a moment too long. I always thought of them as the boys most likely to steal your clothes after gym class or take pictures of you in the shower, not just to make their friends laugh, but because some terrifying part of them needed any excuse to seeing your naked dick one more time.

Now those angry little boys are all grown up, yet they call you fag and their eyes still linger as they pound another drink because at least they can blame their limp dick on the booze when they take yet another pretty girl home tonight. But it's not the booze, it never was. That's something they're about to realize and I, in my benevolent spirit, will help them come to this discovering over and over and over again.

I was waiting for my coffee order to be called at the Starbucks counter. There had been a bit of a line as usual, so I busied myself scrolling through social media on my phone. I sat there, my hair, long and black, lying over my right shoulder and obstructing my view of the room. I'd always liked my hair and many of my partners did too, maybe it was because I looked more feminine and that helped them feel less guilty over fucking a guy, maybe they just liked having something to hold on to, it didn't really matter to me. Despite not being able to see much past my phone and the table, I could already feel eyes on me. I let my mind wonder, my other senses taking over.

Sure enough, within moments I felt him, another hungry body wanting me. I explored farther, prickling the surface of his mind and emotions. Just as I could sense a person's desires, I could sense their fears, and best yet, I could see where they overlapped. Sure enough, right in the middle, fear and guilt wrapped around the man's yearning where his mind fell on me. I could almost feel his eyes like a physical touch as they roamed down my slender frame, trancing from my tilted head to my narrow hips, curiously lingering at my...

"Grande americano with room for... Sy?" the barista called.

I pulled my attention back to the present and got up, pocketing my phone. I stood up a little straighter, my stride a little longer, as I walked to the counter and collected my drink.

"I like your shirt!" the girl behind the counter said, with a smile.

I glanced down, trying to remember what I was wearing that day. I smiled. It was a somewhat cheeky t-shirt a graphic designer friend of mine had made. It depicted a unicorn-onesie clad Deadpool riding Spider-Man like a horse in front of a gay pride flag. Needless to say, I hadn't exactly been expecting to meet anyone today. "Thanks!" I replied to the girl and walked over to the little bar with milks and sugars.

Back at the counter I heard the barista calling out "Jamie, Venti Chai?"

I turned back around, struggling to force the plastic lid back on my drink and just as I managed to get it in to place, BAM! Jamie and his Venti Chai came crashing into me.

"I'm so sorry man! I didn't see—"

"Watch where you're going fag!" the other man snarled, his eyes practically flaming with unbridled rage.

I looked up at him, so shocked I couldn't help but reach out to his mind again, just to figure out what was going on. Sure enough, it was the same guy who I had felt watching me before.

Well then, today just got a lot more interesting.

Here's a fun fact about incubuses I bet you didn't know, mostly because most people don't know we exist, once we've touched you—like say, crashed into in you at Starbucks—we can track our scent on you pretty much across state lines. So even after tall, dark, and homophobic left the coffee shop this morning, I knew exactly where he was, how he felt, and as far as it pertained to me, what he was thinking. Which is how I learned that his spilled drink made my shirt cling to my admittedly well-formed chest, because that was all he thought about as he drove home.

I checked in on his whereabouts a couple times as I went about my day, wondering if we'd run into each other again. We didn't, but every so often I'd catch a glimpse of my own form, shifted and slightly hazy, seen through his eyes. I liked that he was thinking about me.

It made my mind wonder to all sort of spectacular images as I stepped into the shower now. I pictured him showering off from his day too, his soft brown hair slicked back under the jet of water that ran down a sculped tan body. He'd wipe the water from his eyes, maybe rub its warmth over his neck before a curious hand roamed down his firm chest. My face would pop into his mind as it had so many times today, a little flustered and surprised, my slightly erect nipples pressing through a damp shirt. Had he noticed they were pieced in that moment? I couldn't tell from his thoughts. I pictured that wondering hand seeking out his hardening cock. Would he feel guilty as he thought of me or just excited? Did he remember my name from my order? Would he whisper it as he came?

"Fuck," I murmured, realizing how hard I'd become just from thinking about him. Just as I'd pictured my new obsession doing, I gripped my cock in one hand, the other braced against the shower wall. I thought about how he'd looked that morning, even how his voice sounded as he insulted me. I don't know why it turned me on so much, but it always did. I jerked faster, repeating my fantasy again, imaging what he'd look like in this position.

Then, just by chance, my thoughts pushed over into his and I saw it, or specifically, I saw myself. My flustered face, my wet chest, and felt an excited heat course through his mind. The kind that only physical pleasure could bring. Of course, I couldn't know for a fact that he was touching himself just then, but just this taste, this possibility was more than enough. Globs of grey cum splattered against the shower wall and floor as I moaned, slowing my pace as waves of pleasure continued to rip through me. It was enough to break my connection with him, but just for now.

End part one