Succubus

by Mystral and Animal

There are some things that a man can't escape during a full moon. Even though I knew it was a full moon that night, I couldn't see it through the thick flannel blanket of moisture-laden clouds. Watching pensively out the window, the rain looked like strings of tinsel in the dark night of Christmas. It was cold and wet, and I was miserable, aching for something I couldn't define and couldn't remember, but could not forget, as if my very spirit called out for something, a wordless plea. Finishing my scotch, I went to bed, still troubled by persistent longings that had no name, and more importantly, no tangible reason.

Whether the sound of the front door as it opened woke me up, I'll never know, but I will never forget the persistent sound of the water dripping upon the hardwood of the floors, coming closer to the bedroom. The windows opened, blowing the curtains as rain lashed through the screens. Later, I wouldn't be able to recall the sound, and I wasn't aware of having woken up, yet I knew I couldn't be asleep. The gauze of the sheers at the windows lay lifeless, but a thick mist was taking form in the room, solidifying, emerging in the shape of a woman. Her long hair moved in wisps, like the mist, like a shroud, and she moved towards me silently, stealthily.

The curtains' movement seemed to seek to deceive me, and my awareness of her gathered like the diaphanous fabric that covered her body. The more I strained to see her, the more the mist drew around her veil of vagueness; and as I let go, the clearer she became. Like the mist itself, she was more than I could comprehend. I knew that the fire in the verdant vastness of her eyes was real; their intent held a darkness, yet pleasure and an invitation. She looked to the door, and it slowly swung closed, sealing us in together. Then she briefly glanced at the windows, and the wind calmed, yet the atmosphere remained in a kind of surreal swirl of motion. Turning to me again, her eyes were riveted on mine, flashing dangerous and blazing in her urgent need. She gazed hotly at me, in silent askance, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I was mesmerized watching her glide toward me, suddenly unaware of anything except her, her breasts beneath the sheerness that caressed them, a colorless fabric that covered her body, moving with her deep breathing, nipples straining against the sheerness of cloth as if reaching for me; something apart from her, yet totally part of me. I was suddenly conscious that the covers were pulled down around my knees, and yet could not remember doing so, nor was I cold, although the wind and rain raged as harshly as my hardness did, a feeling wrapping around me like something independent of my being. She touched my shoulder, slowly trailing her fingers over my chest, our eyes locked in unflinching desire, her touch feeling like a languorous fire that melted me beyond submission.

Her eyes left mine, gazing down the full length of my body, clad only in silk pajama bottoms, tied with a thin cord. I'd ordered them from India, I thought suddenly, as though she'd asked me how they'd come to be there. Her pale white hand played lower, her lips parting slightly as she pulled at the tie, sliding it from its twists and loop without a movement of her wrist. Lifting my head just enough to watch her, my senses reeled. She looked at me, and I answered by lifting my hips in reply, the feeling of her fingers tugging them down both exquisite and troubling. The soft silk slid down with such slow deliberateness that there was no other feeling I could ever remember having—until her hands found me, fingers cupping under my shaft, wrapping one at a time around it, her skin cool and supple. The wind should have produced a chill, yet her hand around my shaft was warm, alive. My pleasure was painfully insufficient.

She began to stroke my cock, taking such infinite care with each stroke that I realized my hips were arching upwards of their own accord, trying to will her to move faster before I lost my mind. Yet she persisted, watching my responses with an increasing drive to possess me. Finally, when I thought she could taunt me no more, she lowered her mouth to my cock and began to slowly suck at me, tongue dipping, licking, moving in circles as her mouth lowered, each inch swallowed making my hands convulse into her hair in tandem with her mouth. And still she sucked, my breathing hard and raspy, throat becoming raw from the force of my gasps. Her mouth was a fire melting me into submission, rendering me powerless to resist, even had I wanted to.

Just as I thought I was beginning to cum, and could take nothing more, she suddenly moved her head back, her hand leaving my cock, and the shock was like a howl in my chest. I knew with growing frustration that she had willed me to stop, more than any physical manipulation she could have done. I looked at her, trying to form the words, 'no, I must have you,' when she smiled slowly, pulling her sheath of fabric into wads in her hands, inching it up at the sides, so the woven silk draped before her, preventing me from seeing what I so longed to see, barely visible beneath the shimmering folds of the cloth. The most I could seem to do was to groan and clutch hard at the sheets, twisting them into knots. She responded by gathering her dress over one arm, pushing the shoulder off to reveal one breast, her nipple hard and starkly pink.

She kneeled, then straddled my hips, her free hand again surrounding my shaft, rubbing it against her hairless mound, slipping it just inside her lips, then stroking it over her lips, to the crease where her inner thigh met her lips, then slipping it inside her lips again to rub his head against her clit, her moans now echoing my own, a sound as formless as the wind outside. My hands gripped her hips, but she delayed me, pushing up against my hands in a way that forcing myself up into her wasn't possible, the surprising strength of her thighs, and my inability to have my way, a possession of sorts. She chuckled knowingly at my inability to subvert her will. Her juices filled my nostrils, sweet and salty, and I became maddened with the need to sink my shaft inside her, bury it hard, her moans becoming faster, harder. I struggled to thrust my cock upwards with futile movements, feeling both insane desire and fear, her warmth and her chill, my dream woman and a nightmare spirit. My hands were powerless to resist her, and powerless to have my way with her, as if tied with the same thin cord that had bound my pajamas.

She lowered herself onto my cock, again moving slowly down over me the way her mouth had just done, with infinite purpose and a slowness of movement that made me fight her hips with my hands, still to no avail. As she moved herself down my cock inch by inch I felt every nerve screaming as she engulfed me, taking me inside, her muscles as taut and controlled as her thighs were. Once she had me fully inside her pussy, she stopped and looked down at me, her hair spilling over her shoulders, partly obscuring her breasts from my view, eyes lit from within, nostrils flaring with passion, her lips parted as her tongue traced her lower lip. I somehow knew in my passion-fogged head that I was feeling it as if it were my lip she was licking, in a slow half-moon with the flattened underside of her tongue.

Just then, she began to move, thrusting herself up and down my cock with hard, even strokes, squeezing me tightly. I could feel every bit of her, every bit of me, every movement, every nuance of her muscles milking my cock as if they were her fingers, and I arched my hips up to meet her, my hands finally not meeting resistance over her hips, pushing her down hard before she fought to slide her hips back up and away from me, slipping up until just the tip was inside her. That's when she gripped me the hardest, when I thought she'd moved up too high and I'd slip out of her. Her sounds of pleasure were, in my reeling head, a confusion of intermingled pleasured moaning and nightmarish shrieks. As she straddled me, my cock buried deep within her, I could feel the parallel that she engulfed me both physically and spiritually. With each stroke she pulled up and I caught her rhythm, pulling her back down in the eternal dance between men and women, of coming and going, of leaving and beginning, of taking and giving, the inner and outer mysteries of becoming one.

I felt my orgasm rise from somewhere deeper than I'd ever known before, like a hot wave that threatened to take my sanity to somewhere unfathomable. And still she plunged on and still I thrust my hips up to meet hers, my hands forcing down her body over my cock, building until I threw my head back, feeling the rush rising up to flow through my throat as I begged for release. She groaned her assent and squeezed tightly, like a hot, wet vise that massaged and pulled me deeper within her pussy. I came at the same time that she did, with violent thrusts, ripping the screams of blissful orgasm that freed us, even as it drained us, entering into someplace utterly and completely whole. As if in recognition of the power of such a release, thunder cracked sharply outside, lightening ripping the room in fragmented light, casting electric white eeriness across her body over mine. Over and over, my orgasm washed through me, until I thought I'd die from pleasure before the next spasm crashed through me and I fervently hoped it would never end.

I awoke the next morning, my pajamas still around my knees, the windows closed, the room silent. "A dream," I whispered hoarsely, getting out of bed to shower. As I ran the hot water, preparing to step in, I noticed that my belly and chest was sticky with steam-moistened cum, and felt slightly foolish. Sheesh, I thought, I haven't woken to that in a long time. And then, wiping the moisture from the mirror to gaze at my reflection, I noticed the perfume that wafted from his body; rich, redolent of headiness and exotic flowers I knew I'd never smelled before. And knew that when I looked at the floor leading from the front door to the bedroom, there would be rain spatters and the water-prints of small feet, leading to my bed.