Feature Writer: NSCarter

Feature Title: MEETING MY SUCCUBUS 1

Published: 03.03.2021

Story Codes: Erotic Horror

Synopsis: My take on the idea of the succubus

Author’s Notes: This could fit in various sections. I have chosen to put it in sci-fi and fantasy, but it could also go into non-human and underneath it all I see it as the beginning of a romance, albeit an unconventional one. I have always enjoyed stories that tackle fantasy themes such as vampires or magic, but do so by imagining how they could work in the real world. This is my attempt to do the same with the concept of the succubus. There is sex, but you’ll have to work your way through a bit of the story to get there. Feedback is welcome, and of course if you liked it please vote! I have not decided whether to leave it as a one-off or to continue the tale. It goes without saying that all the characters engaged in sexual activities are over eighteen (in one case by several centuries), this is of course a work of fiction, and the copyright is reserved by me, N. S. Carter, and I forbid its use, in whole or in part, without my explicit permission.

Meeting My Succubus 1

If you were choosing a time and place for a life-changing event, one that divides your life neatly into ‘before’ and ‘after’, then midnight in a graveyard would be hard to beat, though I guess it is open to accusations of being somewhat clichéd. However, that is exactly when and where it happened; at midnight in a graveyard. I should mention, just to reassure you, that it was not foggy and there was no sound of owls hooting nearby that I can recall, the moon was not gibbous, and the atmosphere was not particularly eldritch.

In that first moment, when the crazed priest turned to face me, clasping an ornate but wickedly sharp-looking dagger and saying in a curiously nasal voice, rather whiny for such a large man, “Get thee gone, I am engaged in the Lord’s work”, what struck me was the strong possibility that the only ‘after’ that might be involved was going to be personal research on my part into the nature of the afterlife, if there was one. Oddly, the inscription on one of the tombs nearby that had often caught my eye came to my mind, ‘In the Sure and Certain Hope of the Resurrection’. I had the wry thought that the only thing I could be sure of was that they would not inscribe that on my grave, unless they were taking the piss. And bizarrely I also noted that this was the first time I could remember being addressed as ‘thee’.

To make this narrative a little more coherent I should explain a few things. The little-used path through the graveyard at the local church, St. Mary Magdalene, happened to be the shortest route between the bus stop where I would alight after work, and my flat. A while before this event I had realized that once it got dark, I would take the long way round to get home, which was hardly rational behavior for a convinced atheist, and all the more so for a scientist running a successful biotech company. So as a point of principle I always forced myself to walk through the graveyard if I left work after dark (which was often) and the therapy had worked; after the first few times I completely lost my fear of the place.

This is why, on the night in question, I was lost in thought over the latest knotty problem that had kept me in work until gone eleven, concerning the mechanism for how, just occasionally, traumatic experiences seem to be passed on at a genetic level to the next generation and then for some reason not obvious to me the famous quote had just bubbled up in my mind, ‘the sleep of reason produces monsters’.

I was roused from my intellectual reverie by a high-pitched cry from just ahead of me, and in the dirty yellow light of the distant streetlight I could see a slight young woman backed up against one of the over-the-top Victorian era white marble tombs by a menacing figure in a black robe. For a moment it looked like a scene from one of those old silent movies; the gestures wildly exaggerated, the villain almost a caricature and the shadows seeming to be characters in their own right.

In the interests of honesty I have to admit that my intervention was driven not by pure altruism but by an immediate sense that I would not be able to live with myself if I didn’t try to help, even though I had no idea what to do. So, I intervened with what is probably not going to go down in history as one of the immortal battle cries.

“Hey. What’s going on here?”

Clearly not overly impressed, the man in the robe turned to me, holding his dagger in a way that signalled that he intended to use it and said (as I mentioned earlier),

“Get thee gone, I am engaged in the Lord’s work”.

The bizarre language, together with the fact that he was obviously a priest, left me at a loss for words, and actions. He continued,

“This foul hell-spawn is …” and at that point his speech was cut short by the said ‘hell-spawn’ hitting him over the head with a heavy cut-glass vase she had taken from the tomb next to her and which still had in it some wilted flowers and brackish dirty water. Contrary to the laws of narrative convention the vase failed to shatter, but he did go down in quite a satisfactory manner, not fully unconscious but on his hands and knees and clearly groggy.

Not being an action hero and lacking previous experience of dealing with dagger-wielding clergy, I was only starting to consider next moves, such as phoning for the police and possibly an ambulance, when the young woman sprang into action, kicking the knife he had dropped away from his hand which was already groping for it and into the long grass nearby. She then grabbed my arm and started to pull me away.

“Shouldn’t we …” was my next impressive utterance, cut short decisively by her saying,

“No, we shouldn’t. Your job is to finish rescuing the maiden”.

Even in this fraught situation I couldn’t help but notice that she seemed to be mocking me slightly, which felt unfair, even if in truth my only contribution so far had been to distract her would-be assailant. But she gave me no time to cultivate a grievance, as she followed up with,

“I suggest you take me home. You do live near here, don’t you?”

Once more derailed, I could only answer lamely.

“Yes, my flat is just down the road”.

Oddly enough I thought ‘how does she know I don’t have a wife or live-in girlfriend who might object to me bringing home a pretty girl after midnight?’ And then I remember being annoyed for myself for thinking like that.

Once we had reached the street the light was stronger, and I could see her better. She appeared young, perhaps in her early twenties. From the way she was dressed, with army-type boots and distressed jeans and a hoodie a couple of sizes too large for her diminutive build, my guess was that she was a student at the nearby university. I was a bit puzzled by her appearance: initially when she was backed up against the tomb I had the impression of long blonde hair, but now it was clear that it was dark, in fact raven-black and so as far from blonde as could be, and no more than shoulder length.

Her skin was pale, and I was a little shocked at myself, given the circumstances, for thinking how much I would like to caress her smooth cheek. Her paleness was accentuated by the carnal red shade of her lipstick on a mouth that was just a little too wide to be conventionally beautiful, but which looked eminently kissable. In the artificial light it was hard to tell what colour her eyes were, other than dark, but they seemed larger than would be usual for the size of her heart-shaped face.

It goes without saying that she was gorgeous, and in a way that was very definitely sexy, or at least got my mind thinking of sex, which I guess has to be the definition of sexy.

Her voice also seemed subtly different to when I first heard it, when she had sounded quite ‘street’; what my mother would have termed ‘common’ (which always amused me since she had grown up in Battersea and so could hardly claim to be aristocracy). Then again none of us are at our best when facing an imminent knife thrust. Now her modulated tones brought to mind suggestions of private education and the home counties, in other words ‘posh’, and as a state-educated kid with socialist leanings from a working-class background (although as you can probably tell I have traveled a long way from there) I am a little ashamed that it is exactly this kind of voice I find turns me on.

Wanting to take back the conversational initiative, and hoping to counter the impression she might have gained so far, I asked,

“So, are you a student?”

She paused and answered me in a considered manner.

“Well, I suppose you might call me a student of life, and the amorous arts, but I am not at ‘uni’ if that is what you mean.”

And then for neither the first nor last time she went on to completely floor me by saying, in much the same tones that you could imagine someone telling you that she is in marketing or works in a call centre,

“Actually, I am a succubus, and technically you have just saved my life, so I guess that means I am yours now.”

This was all the more peculiar for being said in a rather matter-of-fact tone, except for what I felt was an unnecessary (and slightly insulting) stress on the word ‘technically’.

I really was not able to come up with any response to that. Then again would you have done any better in my place? The events of that evening were reassembling themselves in my mind: one of those trick pictures that can be seen as one of two completely different things, like that one of the old hag or the beautiful woman. What I had stumbled on in the graveyard was in fact one maniac attacking another crazy person. Questions began to form in my mind. ‘Is she dangerous? Should I call someone?’

Perhaps looking to humour her, or at least find out something useful, I said,

“I’m Adam, What’s your name?”

Now you would have thought that this had limited potential for going off-piste, so to speak, but if you did think that then you would be very wrong.

“That’s a good question. What do you think would be a good name for me? For someone who looks and sounds like me?”

You might imagine that she was just having a bit of fun with me, but I felt that her question was actually seriously intended. Which should have been more worrying than if she had been taking the piss, but strangely wasn’t. So instead of responding with something along the lines of ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ I rather gave it some serious thought and came up with,

“Clara. I think you could be a Clara.” I had no idea where that came from.

Her response was immediate and had the enthusiasm of a woman trying on the seventeenth dress in a shop and finally deciding she would buy this one.

“OK. I like that. I’m Clara”.

Then I saw her shiver and I realized she was wet. Drenched in fact. This was odd given that there had been no rain for days, so I mentioned it.

“You’re soaking. What happened, Clara?”

I was proud of myself for using the name: I assumed this would be standard protocol for pacifying a possibly deranged young women.

“That cretin threw a whole bottle of holy water over me,” was her response in a slightly exasperated tone. She went on,

“It doesn’t work of course. Not unless you are working with a long-term strategy of giving me pneumonia.”

I think that this time I might actually have managed something like “Oh” in response, but still a long way from suave and sophisticated.

Clara continued,

“Long sharp daggers will do the trick every time. The inscribed holy symbols are an optional extra though.”

At that point we’d come to my flat’s entrance, so I did not have to produce a response, which was just as well. I inserted my key into the lock, opened the door and walked in, expecting her to follow, but she just stood on the doorstep, looking up at me expectantly with those unsettling large dark eyes.

After a pause she said,

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I had kind of taken that for granted, and was now beginning to be a bit exasperated with all this game-playing, and so I said with exaggerated emphasis on the key words and a hint of sarcasm and that seemed completely lost on her,

“Welcome to my humble abode, Clara. Please do come in and make yourself at home”.

And she did.

Her first words on entering were, said with an amused smile, “It’s bigger on the inside,” which is kind of true because seen from the front the building seems quite narrow and it is not clear that it actually goes back quite a long way from the road. It was also obvious to me that the allusion to Doctor Who’s Tardis was deliberate, and it struck me that I had probably dredged up the name Clara from a character in a TV show who I’d had a bit of a crush on when younger, and who she bore some resemblance to.

Suddenly a little uncertain, off-balance in the presence of a really attractive woman, I asked her,

“Can I get you something to eat … or drink?”

This time it was my question that was a bit daft, and her response the bit that made more sense.

“Actually, I could do with getting out of these wet clothes. Where is your bathroom?”

I told her and she headed that way, turning back for a moment to add,

“I will feed afterwards.”

Though I was beginning to get used to her saying odd things, in this case the word ‘feed’ had the effect of making me instantly aroused, giving me a semi-erection.

I was in the kitchen looking at what my options were for putting together some kind of meal, and discovering that they were, to say the least, limited, when she returned, rather quicker than I had expected from my previous experience of women in bathrooms.

Now, assuming that you are a bloke, and one with aspirations to be a decent human being, you’ve probably had the experience of going on a date and finding that a woman wants to go back to your place, and then you were unsure what that means.

As in what happens next? Does she want to sleep with you? Do you need to get more explicit consent from her, or will that kill the mood? And so on. And if you are a woman then you could have probably skipped this bit without loss. Anyway, it can be hard to know what the rules are for a much more conventional situation, so it is that much harder when it comes to working out the protocol for bringing home possibly crazy but very attractive women after rescuing them from knife-wielding priests in graveyards at midnight.

In other words, to put it simply, is it OK to fuck her in this situation?

This shows you my tendency to overthink things. Probably a good quality in a scientist but not so much when it comes to romantic relationships. So, anyway, you now have an insight into my state of mind at that moment.

The only way to describe how Clara walked when she came into the kitchen, wearing my bathrobe — and only my bathrobe – was the verb ‘to slink’. The small part of my brain that was not acting like one of those cartoon characters, you know the one with his jaw on the floor and his tongue hanging out, wondered at how she looked so well-groomed and seemed to have reapplied make-up, given that she had no handbag and I did not exactly keep that kind of thing in my flat. Also, she had a scent that could only be described as intoxicating — an unusual response for me as most perfumes seem to me either floral ones that remind me of visits from maiden aunts as a child, or overblown scents that assault the senses and send any thoughts of sex running for cover. This one was the aromatic equivalent of saying ‘why have you still got your clothes on?’, and I certainly responded to it. My previous erection, which had only just begun to subside, returning in full force.

I really am a scientist. It is part of my deepest nature and, in me at least, it manifests in there being two of me: the part that does, acts and even kisses and fucks, and the part that stands back and observes, analyses, considers and occasionally either tells me to stop doing something it considers dodgy, or even more rarely urges me on. I mention this to explain some of what follows, and why I might be a little different from most guys without being able to claim that this makes me somehow noble or virtuous.

But I am digressing just as I suspect things are getting interesting from your point of view.

Clara did not hesitate at any point but came right up to me, invading my personal space, though truth be told this was not an unwelcome invasion, and looking up into my eyes said,

“I’m going to kiss you.”

This is where that other me, the observer, intervened.

Lots of people have kinks. They can be as standard and acceptable as stockings, high heels and the like, or they can be rather more peculiar, including women urinating on them or having tattoos of goats for example. My kink is consent, or rather the idea that I need to be sure a woman is with me or doing things with me because she really wants to. In this case I was both worried that she might be acting out of gratitude, or worse that she might be deranged and so incapable of meaningful consent.

“You know you don’t have to do this”.

Funnily enough this was the first time I had spoken with conviction since I had encountered her. This was the real me, for good or ill.

Clara looked at me with an expression that suggested puzzled amusement and after a moment responded.

“No. We are going to kiss because I want to kiss you, Adam, and I am pretty sure you want to kiss me.”

Then she added,

“It isn’t gratitude for your heroism you know, because I don’t recall you being all that heroic; I just want to kiss you.”

The observer accepted this as being faultless logic and nodded approval to the rest of me.

Clara was a wonderful kisser. Many women aren’t in my experience. Especially those that are highly attractive. They allow you to kiss them and you are so happy that they do, and you enjoy the experience so much that you conclude that they are experts, if you think about it at all, without any evidence to support the proposition.

Being kissed by Clara, and she definitely was the active party, was a revelation. Slow, making me feel every bit of my lips in contact with hers, feeling each of the fingers of her left hand as it curled round the back of my neck, both firm and gentle at the same time. She was in no hurry to introduce tongues into the mix, but when she did, it was with a delicacy and sensuousness on her part that was like nothing I had ever known. In truth kissing Clara was truly more of an erotic experience than ‘going all the way’ had been with my previous lovers.

When she pulled away, I resisted the urge to say something along the lines of “wow”, feeling it might not exactly come across as cool.

She looked at me, considering, and said,

“Hmmm. You really are different, Adam. I think I’m going to enjoy you”.

Again, we were back into the territory of her saying things that left me struggling for a response. But she didn’t give me time to come up with one anyway.

“Get undressed.” She commanded.

I looked at her a bit quizzically, and she answered as though explaining for the chronically slow of thinking,

“How else am I going to suck your cock?”

The other me came back into the game, and weirdly chose as its premise something I completely did not believe in.

“But Clara, if you are a succubus, won’t you consume my soul if you do that?”

Various bits of me were interrogating other bits and saying the equivalent of ‘What the fuck?’ at the line I was taking.

“Don’t be silly, Adam. You don’t believe in souls, do you?”

Which was completely true and again left me at a loss for what to say next. But I made an effort,

“So, what’s with the succubus thing?”

She stood back from me, sighed, and looked at me, as if contemplating what to tell me, or perhaps how much to tell me. And then when she did speak things again set off at ninety degrees to my take on reality.

“You know, Adam, I’ve gone a very long time, a hundred years at least, without ever telling someone that I am a succubus, and now I have done it twice in one night, and as you saw the first time did not exactly go well. I don’t know what has come over me.

“That priest, the one trying to perforate me when you came along, he’s the older brother of Steve, the guy I was with. He turned up out of the blue and immediately took against me. I guess he has a problem with women in general. Probably some kind of sex hang-up.

“Anyhow, I’d made the mistake of having a drink. I really shouldn’t as it goes straight to my head.”

I immediately made a mental note to not offer Clara a drink at any point. I know, I’m weird. I really have a terror of taking advantage of someone … but back to Clara.

“Steve seemed to be scared of his brother, Nathan I think his name is. He kept making excuses and even pretending that we weren’t together, which was really starting to annoy me. Nathan kept talking about me and the evils of womankind in general, like I wasn’t even there. So, when Steve went to the loo and it was just me and Nathan, I couldn’t resist. I did my demonic act. Like this”.

You remember how I mentioned the idea of the picture that you can see in two ways, the hag and the beautiful woman? Well, what Clara did next was the equivalent of the said picture bursting into flames in your hand. Her eyes began to glow a reddish-orange color, and developed a dark vertical slit in the center of the iris, and her tongue extended unnaturally far out of her mouth and the end split into two independently moving tips, like a snake’s.

I suspect my reaction was not just different to that of Nathan, but probably also not that of the vast majority of people. At this point what happened was that the other me; the observer that you might consider unnatural, took over for a bit.

“So, is this your natural form, Clara?”

She quickly changed back to how she’d looked a moment before and burst out laughing, in a very natural cackling laugh, and the atmosphere was suddenly more relaxed.

“I suppose it might be something like my original form, but I don’t really have a natural form. That was just me messing with his head; playing up to his weird ideas. Which turned out to be a big mistake as next thing I knew he had thrown a bottle of holy water over me, pulled out that knife and chased me all the way down the road to the cemetery, shouting stuff about the antichrist, the number of the beast and the whore of Babylon. And you know the rest.”

She stopped then. Waiting to see how I was going to react. Perhaps expecting me to freak out.

“But you are a succubus?”

She lent her head to one side, considering her answer.

“Well, put it this way, it is the best word I can come up with for what I am. But in some ways, it is kind of misleading at the same time. I don’t eat men’s souls”.

This was beginning to get onto more comfortable territory for me. Which should have warned me that there were still a few curveballs coming my way.

“But I do feed off the essence of men, their seed, and learning from what it tells me about them.”

Now the geneticist in me was definitely engaged. This was starting to sound interesting.

“From your seed I can learn not just about who you are, your desires and needs, but also about the things that have formed you and the experiences that have made you who you are; and of course how to please you. But I guess that sounds crazy to you.”

At this point my thinking was going down two very different paths at the same time: one exploring the scientific plausibility of the genetic implications of what she had said, and the other pointing out that the more plausible explanation for what I had seen being that it was an illusion, and she was pulling some kind of con trick on me. And there was still the remainder of me that was so very aware that there was a gorgeous woman in only a bathrobe in my kitchen, and with the memory still fresh of what it was like to kiss her and wanting very much to do so again, and more.

Then she seemed to change gears again, saying in a purring low voice,

“Maybe I can convince you better once I’ve fed. Get undressed.”

Then she approached me again and added,

“Let me help you.”

And before I could say anything, she was unbuttoning my shirt.

It is odd the things that cross your mind in moments like these, or at least my mind. I have no idea what would cross your mind if you were being undressed by a succubus and I probably don’t want to know. I considered how much more dexterous she was than a previous girlfriend who had tried to do this some years before; it is after all quite hard to unbutton someone else’s shirt, and put it down as a small item of evidence that maybe she really had been around for a long time and had learned such skills.

I soon had far more enjoyable evidence of her skills, as much quicker than seemed reasonable I was completely naked and seated on one of the wooden kitchen chairs with Clara on her knees between my legs, looking up at me. The bathrobe had been discarded on the floor and I could see just how lovely she was.

Now is a good point to say something about another of my hang-ups. Well, you are probably saying ‘no it isn’t’; a good time that is; and you want to get back to the action, but this is my story so you will have to put up with it. I know that men are supposed to love getting blow-jobs. It is not that I hate them in principle, but I have always struggled with the feeling that the woman is doing it because she feels she should and not because she enjoys it, and this got in the way of my enjoying the experience (see my ‘hang-up’ about consent). This meant that I had had received relatively few of them, even though I’d had my fair share of relationships for someone in their late twenties.

In this case though my reservations evaporated in the heat of Clara’s obvious desire.

Her slim sensitive fingers roamed over my legs, my thighs, my abdomen and chest, leaving me exquisitely aware of each touch. Gazing down at her I could see that her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders and the area above her breasts had flushed a deep red with arousal. Her breasts appeared firm and rounded but not particularly large, with the nipples very clearly hard.

Her tongue appeared again, now reassuringly human and licked up the length of my cock, which had a rigidity to it I had rarely known. I was tempted to write that it was painfully hard but in truth the sensation was the opposite of painful. From time to time she gazed up at me and it seemed that she had an almost triumphal smirk in her expression that when I saw it made me even more aroused.

Under different circumstances I think I would have been concerned about coming too soon but paradoxically, knowing that she wanted me to come, I relaxed and so probably lasted a while longer than I otherwise would have done, though since I was not watching the clock, I have no idea how long it was. It seemed both to go on for a blissful eternity and to be over far too soon.

As I neared orgasm, I rested one hand on the top of Clara’s head and was surprised at just how silky and fine her hair was. I had no wish to push her down onto my cock, and just rested my hand there lightly. Trying to be considerate I attempted to indicate, rather incoherently, that I was about to burst.

She stopped for a moment and smiled at me before saying,

“What kind of a succubus would I be if I didn’t want to swallow?”

Soon after that I was coming in her mouth, and it was unlike any other climax I had ever known, both in the strength of the sensation and in that it seemed to go on for so much longer. In fact, for a moment, I had the bizarre thought that maybe she had lied to me and I really was having my immortal soul, and my very life, extracted through my cock, and yet the thought did not make me panic.

I sat there, emptied, exhausted and at the same time profoundly satisfied. Unable to move for the moment but not wanting to, either. Having swallowed my ‘essence’ Clara remained on her knees, eyes closed, absolutely still, for all the world as though in a meditative trance. After perhaps a couple of minutes I felt able to move and perhaps even to speak if I wanted to. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, and even her features seemed slightly unfocused before seeming to change subtly before me, her nose now a little smaller than before and slightly turned up at the end and her eyebrows a bit thicker. There had been some kind of change in her beauty, not that she was more or less beautiful than before, but rather in some way it had become a kind of beauty that was meant for me and no-one else.

I was aware that she was focusing now and studying me intently.

“I was right about you, Adam. You really are different. You are like none of the others I’ve known. I mean I’m glad that necromancers and wizards seem to have gone out of fashion, as being summoned to satisfy their tastes and desires was at the very least disgusting and often horrifying. And more recently I’ve been left with people on the margins of society since while I might be a powerful sex demon, I still don’t officially exist, and it is getting really difficult to get by without any kind of ID.”

Then she added in a more subdued voice,

“And after what I did to that last necromancer, I don’t want to have to go back down below and face the music. It really would be hell!”

She gave a rueful laugh.

Again, I was still at a loss. Of course, there were questions I could, and would, ask, but this did not seem to be the right moment. However, she was the one to break the silence. She got to her feet and was standing, still looking at me, just out of reach.

“So, it seems that I am named Clara after a character called Clara Oswald from a TV series. You had fantasies about her didn’t you, Adam?”

For some reason I blushed, which is weird considering what we had just done, and I could only nod.

“Well, tonight you are going to fuck her”, and right there, in front of my eyes she slowly changed, actually becoming a little shorter, her features subtly morphing so that her face was a little more rounded and her hair no longer black but becoming a lighter shade of brown. Even her posture and movements were different and when she spoke the voice was much faster and had that kind of slight impatience in its tone that I remember from watching Doctor Who.

“Well come on. Time for bed”, and she grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the bedroom.

Funnily enough I seemed to be taking this in my stride and my biggest concern once we got there was that I would not be up to making love quite so soon.

“Clara,” I started, and was amused that this was still the right name for what seemed to be a different person, “I am not a teenager any more, so you might have to wait a bit before I am ready”.

She raised one eyebrow and then looked down at my cock and said, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that”.

Sure enough, I was erect again. And then the other me intervened. It decided that it was somehow wrong to fuck Clara Oswald, even though she was not really Clara Oswald and was very definitely willing.

Clara immediately sensed the change in me and asked,

“What’s the problem, Adam?”

I answered a bit awkwardly, realizing how daft I probably sounded and stumbling over my words slightly.

“Could you change back to the real you? I’d be more comfortable with that.”

She looked at me with amusement.

“But which one is the real me?”

Then she went on, putting on a kind of mock sepulchral tone,

“I am legion. I contain multitudes”.

Again, she left me struggling to express myself, but this time she took pity.

“I guess you mean the me who just gave you a blow job?”, and without waiting for an answer she changed back, hair becoming black once more and her features returning to how they had been just minutes before, and though I realized on some level how ridiculous it was, I immediately felt more comfortable with the idea; the idea of fucking her. Of course, comfortable is almost completely the wrong word for how I felt. Perhaps it could be better put as ‘uncomfortably hard, but in a good way’.

This is probably getting predictable from your perspective: every time we are about to get down to business, and don’t worry, we will, I stick in some explanation about how I think and maybe even some of my backstory. But I think it really will help you to understand why I am the way I am. You may not see that as mattering, but since this is my story, I do get some privileges.

Anyhow, I lost my virginity rather later than many guys, or at least later than most will admit to, at nineteen, when I was at university. In retrospect the comical thing is that the girl who was my first was not herself a virgin, but when I told her afterwards that it had been my first time she refused to believe me and even got a bit annoyed, thinking I was making fun of her in some way. You see the geek in me believes strongly in research and preparation, so I had read up thoroughly on the ‘challenge’ that awaited me, and I took the injunctions about how you must ensure the woman comes first literally, and on the importance of foreplay with an almost religious seriousness.

The result?

I ‘blew her socks off’ so to speak and she understandably refused to believe that I had been a virgin. And funnily enough while I can remember how good it felt to bring her to a gasping, drawn out, leg-trembling orgasm, and to see the ecstatic expression on her face, I have no memory of actually coming myself, though I am sure that I did at some point.

So that formative experience shaped how I approach sex. Basically, what does it for me is making the woman come. And strangely it seemed to have got in the way of me forming more serious relationships. Each time I would meet someone I liked, we would get serious, we would go to bed, she’d love it but after that she would see me almost solely through the prism of sex. Kind of weird since it’s supposed to be the other way round, but it was like the exact opposite of the fabled ‘friendzone’.

Now we are back to my bedroom with Clara standing facing me, both of us naked, me with an erection, and her with an expression on her face that suggested she was about to say something cheeky and take charge once more. So, I surprised her by gently pushing her to fall back on the bed and followed her down quickly, leaning in and bringing her legs up over my shoulders with her feet on my back and I leaned in to taste her wonderfully smooth pussy.

She struggled a little and began to protest,

“No, Adam, you don’t have to …. You really mustn’t lick me …. Not there … It’s not a good idea …” Her words were interspersed with panting that told me I was having the effect I desired. This was one of the few circumstances where I did not obsess over consent and I just ignored her words which quickly became an inarticulate series of moans. Her hands seemed to be trying to get me to stop, but in an ineffective and uncoordinated manner, so I grabbed hold of them and used them to pull her more strongly against my mouth and making escape impossible for her. The intoxicating scent I had noticed earlier was much stronger now and really seemed to be coming from her pussy rather than being, as I had assumed, a perfume that she applied.

Now, truth be told, despite what we say to our loved ones, or write in erotic fiction, most women do not smell, or taste for that matter, as though they exude heavenly nectar from their cunts. Don’t get me wrong, the pheromones that are produced do their job of being arousing, but in general there is not going to be a market for bottling and selling their juices.

Clara was different. There is nothing I can compare the smell or taste to, but the effect had more in common with some kind of drug: not one that made you drowsy or caused hallucinations, but rather one that made you experience everything in heightened quality. HD for all the senses. Oh, and if produced commercially it would instantly destroy the market for Viagra.

As I mentioned, modestly, I have developed considerable skills in cunnilingus over the years, but now something else was going on. It was as though I had developed a channel to knowing exactly how Clara was responding to the slightest nuance in how and where my tongue touched her, even down to the feel of my breath on her pussy lips.

Now I will use author’s privilege to explain something from knowledge I only gained later, but indulge the scientist in me who wants people to understand how things work, and it will help you to get a grip on what was happening and among other things why Clara was so reluctant to let me taste her. The succubus absorbs the man’s semen to gain knowledge of what makes him tick, and particularly his sexual needs and desires, essentially what turns him on, so that she can have a degree of power over him by becoming the embodiment of these. So that she can become his ‘dream girl’ if you like. Funnily enough this was a kind of proof of the recent ideas I had been studying of the possibility of certain deep experiences and acquired personality features being passed on in our genetic material; our seed or ‘essence’ as Clara would put it.

Conversely, by tasting the succubus’ pussy, a man will also gain some knowledge of how to please her, and if he takes in enough of it, he will even change physically to some degree to match her ideal, and there will be even deeper changes that I will go into later. As Clara explained to me later, it was not normally a problem as most guys she had encountered did not want to lick her pussy, since they were only interested in their own pleasure and, in the case of the wizards and other assorted magical low-lifes, in their power, and pussy-licking was far too subservient an activity for their liking.

Since the idea is for the man to be ‘hooked’ on her but for her to be able to easily move on when she judges the time is ripe, you can see why Clara did not want me to taste her, and of course there would also be the danger of the man wondering at the fact that he had actually changed physically and perhaps even someone else noticing. And above all it was specifically banned by the lords of hell and allowing it could get a succubus into serious trouble.

Now add into the mix of the above the fact that in my case, my ‘dream girl’ would be someone who was very sensitive to my touch, to my tongue and to my cock, and you can begin to sense something of the perfect erotic storm that we had cooked up. You’ve probably read about how the clitoris contains far more nerve endings than in a man’s penis; something like eight thousand. Well, I would guess that in changing to meet my desires Clara now had many more than this, and also in other parts of her body, making it incredibly sensitive, and specifically tuned to me. Normally this would not have happened since as I mentioned most men, or at least those Clara had known, are much more concerned with their own pleasure, and see pleasing a woman as something to be done as a means to an end, or kind of sexual good manners, if it concerns them at all, and will be easily discouraged from pussy-licking if they even tentatively try it.

The upshot of all this is that unbeknown to me a kind of feedback loop had been set-up. The more of her juices I tasted, the better my ability to stimulate her, and the greater her arousal became. As her arousal increased so she produced more of her juices, and so on round again.

On top of all this, after an evening in which I had not felt at all in control of events, I wanted to take charge. You may have got the impression from what you have seen so far that I am not assertive, but that is not the case. When not tackling midnight assaults or dealing with a sudden case of succubus, I am used to being boss, that is certainly true of my work where I own and run a company with more than twenty staff, and in the scientific world where I have made a name for myself at an unusually young age. So now I saw a chance to take back control and to be honest even to have a little erotic revenge for the way in which Clara had kept me off balance since we’d met. Simply put I intended to make her beg.

And make her beg I did. I repeatedly took her to the edge, ever closer but not quite there. My tongue always sliding just too slowly, or a fraction of millimeter from where she most needed it, or maddeningly just not quite as firmly as she would need to find release. Soon my fingers were able to join in the fun as her hands were no longer doing anything but twitching helplessly by her sides. She began to writhe against me to try to gain that last tiny bit of stimulation she needed to get there, but to no avail, as I was able to always deny it to her, just when it seemed within reach. Finally, she managed to speak.

“Oh god, Adam, you’re torturing me — I need to come”.

And I delighted in answering her.

“Come on now, Clara. You can do better than that. Be a good girl and say ‘please’. In fact, maybe you should beg for it.” I am not even sure where this was coming from as I have sometimes played teasing games with lovers, but nothing as intense as this.

I resumed teasing her even more and she thrashed around, her heels drumming disjointedly on my back, and I could hear her frustrated groans becoming even louder.

“I am not a ‘good girl’, I am a sex demon and I do not beg …” She ground out; words punctuated by breathless gasps.

“Have it your way then” I said lightly and resumed my efforts. In case you can’t tell, I was really getting into this, discovering a ruthless side to myself I had not known existed.

She was getting to a state where complete sentences were beyond her.

“Bastard”, “cruel bastard”, “evil son of a bitch” all came out at some point, then some words in a guttural language that certainly did not sound polite or complimentary and some others I can’t remember. And then the swearing stopped, and I heard her say it.

“Please”.

I slackened off a little and said, “Please what?”

“Please … let me come”. She may have been the succubus but if anyone could be accused of being demonic at that point, I have to admit it was me.

“That’s better, my good girl, but you are still going to have to beg”.

There was one last shudder of her body, almost like a physical manifestation of her resistance being broken and she said it.

“I beg you, Adam. I beg you. I will do anything — just let me come”.

This was it. My cue to reverse what I had done before. Now fingers found exactly the right places, in the right way with the right pressure. My fingers curled inside her and without any seeking or uncertainty pushed on that sweet spot while my tongue extended further than I thought it could and flicked strongly and rapidly across her engorged clit and she cried out, at first shouting “Oh fuck” and then something in another language I did not know. She came and I rode her orgasm with unerring skill, keeping her there in utter abandon for longer than I would have thought possible, before allowing her to come down just before it crossed the line into something like pain.

She was left utterly limp. Her legs had slipped from my shoulders and lay over the end of the bed, twitching and bent almost boneless at the knee. The only sound coming from her was breathless panting. I gently moved up her flushed and sweat-soaked body, planting almost random gentle kisses on her as I passed, as if to atone from my earlier ‘cruelty’. When I reached her head and was able to look down at her I was surprised to see that her eyes were open when I had imagined they might be closed, but they were at first unfocused.

She made a few unsuccessful attempts at speech.

“I …”

“You …”

“We …”

To which I answered, smugly,

“Definitely all of those”.

Then her focus returned, and she said,

“I think you’ve broken me”.

She followed up by saying, her tone one of puzzlement and even perhaps wonder,

“What the fuck just happened? I am supposed to do that to you, Adam.”

At this point I could resist no longer and reached down to kiss her. Something deep and beyond words passed between us as I gazed into her huge brown eyes. To lighten the mood I spoke again,

“So, I have managed to impress a succubus?”

She smiled but then suddenly looked worried.

“I am going to be in so much trouble if they find out”.

The sudden change of tack, and mood, caught me out.

“What do you mean?”

Clara hesitated a moment, as unsure whether she should tell me, but then seemed to decide that it could not make any great difference now.

“There is a strict rule that we must never let any mortal man taste our cunt juices. I kind of forgot about it over the years as it is not something the wizards and other creeps I ended up with ever wanted to do — which is kind of ironic really since if those seekers of magical power had realized what they could gain …”

At that point she stopped, perhaps realizing that she had said too much. I didn’t press her, but made a mental note to ask her more later.

“But yes, you did impress me. In fact as the saying goes, you ‘rocked my world’.”

Then she injected a note of command into her voice and said,

“Now fuck me.”

I did not need any urging. My cock was impossibly rigid and as I slid into her now perfectly lubricated pussy, it felt wonderfully tight around me. In fact for a moment I wondered whether I hadn’t somehow grown in size, or at least in girth, for it to feel that tight.

I was still in control, and I could sense in some way that this was what she wanted, perhaps even a new experience for her. I moved as slowly as possible into her, millimeter by millimeter, this time perhaps in a sense torturing both of us, but to me it was worth it. At first I continued to gaze into her eyes, but then moved down to kiss her on the lips again, surprising her by gently biting her bottom lip. Then I moved my attentions to the side of her neck, kissing her just below her ear, before whispering in her ear,

“I think you like being a good girl for me, don’t you Clara?”, all the time keeping up slow deep strokes with my cock, all the way in and then slowly all the way back until the tip was just inside her entrance, pausing just for long enough to make her worry that it would not be returning, before again slowly but remorselessly thrusting into her. Despite the incredible way her pussy felt as it clenched around me, I did not seem to be having a problem keeping from coming.

Unaware I suspect even of what she was doing, Clara first put one hand on my back and the other around the back of my neck, and soon after wrapped her legs behind my arse, as though trying vainly to urge me on, to make me speed up. She began to groan again, at first perhaps even deliberately to try and get me to lose control, but soon I’m sure no longer aware of what she was doing. She began to beg again, this time as though now her defenses had been breached the words were coming easily to her.

I pulled back once more to look in her eyes and began to gradually speed up my pace. She closed her eyes and I slowed, making her open them in surprise.

“Keep your eyes open and look at me Clara or I’ll stop.”

Although it required increasingly desperate efforts to do so, she kept her eyes open, looking into mine even as her orgasm approached, and as she went over the edge I was rewarded with an incredible sight, as her irises changed color, rapidly going from brown to emerald green, then dark blue, then an unbelievable almost luminous light blue and finally black, as her pussy pulsed and clenched around me before, unable to keep them open, her lids came down and she shrieked my name, and I lost control and came, and this time the feeling was so intense that I also cried out, something I don’t think I had ever done with any other lover.

Now I was truly spent and hardly had the strength to push myself off to lie next to her. Clara’s head turned, her eyes opened to look at me and I could see that they had returned to their previous shade of brown.

For the first time I looked at the bedside clock and realized it was gone three in the morning, and exhaustion caught up with both of us. Neither of us spoke; I think at that point we were both beyond words and had no need of them. I pulled a sheet over us, switched off the bedside lamp and pulled her to me, wrapping her in my arms.

xxxxx

I awoke, realizing it was already gone nine, and for a moment thought I would be late for work, before realizing that it was Saturday, and on top of that reminding myself that since I was the boss no-one would reprimand me anyway. Clara had not evaporated in the night nor snuck out with the first rays of dawn. In fact she looked so normal, aside from her beauty, and so solidly asleep that I began to look for alternate explanations for what I remembered.

However, my visit to the bathroom quickly brought a halt to that. In front of the mirror I studied myself. At first glance my face did not look particularly different; merely ‘bright-eyed and bushy-tailed’ as my dad used to put it. Then for some reason I remembered the odd sensation I’d had in the night of my tongue being longer than usual. I stuck it out. It didn’t seem any different at first glance, until I used it to touch the tip of my nose. That was most certainly different. You know if you can touch the tip of your nose with your tongue and that was not the case before. Strangely, but also fortunately, it didn’t feel different in my mouth, not sort of awkwardly full or anything.

Then it dawned on me. Yes, the same thing you have already thought of. I looked down and sure enough it did seem to be bigger. My cock that is. Both a little longer and definitely fatter. Now obviously men’s ideas of their cock size are notoriously subjective, and I am not one of those obsessives who go round measuring it, but it was definitely bigger.

And that was when I realized something else had changed. I could see my cock looking straight down, without leaning over or sucking my belly in. It is not that I was fat, or even overweight, but like most guys who have to spend long hours in work, eat normally, occasionally have a beer and don’t spend time in the gym every day, I had a bit of a belly. ‘Had’ being the operative word. My belly now was flat.

OK. So it was all real, at least for selected values of ‘real’.

Oddly, I was able to file it away in my head as something to give serious thought to later. As if it was routine for me fuck succubi and then find my body miraculously altered in ways that the adolescent nerd I had been in my teenage years could only have fantasized about (and did). I guess in truth I would have been a lot less calm about it if the changes had been in the opposite direction!

I put my head round the door and saw that Clara was still fast asleep. I quickly threw on some clothes and ventured out to a couple of local shops. This was my normal Saturday morning routine, that being the one day when I refused to do work of any kind.

As a regular they know me in the bakery and Keith was putting my usual couple of croissants in a bag for me as I approached the counter. I was suddenly aware not just of the appetizing scent of the place, setting off pangs of hunger and making me realize just how starving I was, but it seemed to me that I could perceive the individual components, the cinnamon, the doughy scent of the fresh bread, even the buttery odor of the croissants.

“A bit late aren’t we, Adam? What time do you call this?” Keith said, mock severe. He had a point though, as in truth I was a creature of habit and could be relied on to turn up at eight every Saturday morning and it was now rather later than that.

I apologized profusely and promised it wouldn’t happen again and even jokingly begging him not to fire me. Then I surprised him by asking him to add in another couple of croissants and a Danish pastry for good measure. He gave me a comic-book leer and said,

“Entertaining, are we?”

I was so on top of the world that morning that responses came easily.

“Well, you never know Keith. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Maybe a passing supermodel will drop in for a spot of breakfast”.

Alright, so not exactly repartee, but then this was Keith, and it got a laugh.

Next stop was the coffee place. Again, Mary was preparing my usual coffee to go once she saw me come in. Once more I found myself not just enjoying the aroma of generic ‘coffee’ but actually feeling that I could disentangle the different varieties, some sharper than others, though I had no idea which smell went with which name.

“Actually, could I have two of those please, Mary?”

She stopped for a moment and gave me a caricature of a suggestive grin, which looked kind of odd for someone who was otherwise to my mind such a motherly figure.

“Someone got lucky last night then, Adam?”

I considered for a moment the events of the previous night, not that I was going to be describing them to Mary, and responded,

“Well, I suppose ‘lucky’ is as good as any other word for it”.

Then heading back, I passed our local member of the homeless, Jeremiah. At least that was what he called himself and it wasn’t as if I was going to demand to see his passport. I put my things down on the windowsill next to him and fished out a pound to give him. Just then I heard a superior-sounding voice reprimand me.

“You really shouldn’t do that, you know. It only encourages them. And he will just go and spend it on drink.”

I turned to see a ridiculously overdressed horse-faced woman standing looking at me, seeming to expect me to put the money back in my pocket or apologize or both. Although I considered several responses, I decided she did not deserve a reply, other than what I did next, which was to fish all my loose change from my pocket and put it respectfully on the bit of tatty cardboard in front of him, saying,

“Well, I don’t know about you, Jeremiah, but I feel like celebrating today. Have a drink on me”. Childish I know but I hate rich people denying even crumbs to the poorest while cloaking themselves in virtue. OK, end of sermon!

When I got back, Clara was still asleep, so I took the coffees into the bedroom. I leaned over and kissed her on her forehead.

“Wake up, you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and your prince is here”.

She groaned and opened one eye, looking distinctly grumpy at being woken.

“Well, O.K., I’m not a prince, but on the plus side I am bringing you coffee.”

At that she opened the other eye and sat up, a truly distracting sight when the sheet fell from her without her even noticing, revealing her firm round breasts, somehow all the more arousing for not being a deliberate gesture as far as I could tell.

I handed her the coffee and she grabbed hold of it like a lifebelt, prompting me to add,

“So, you are not a morning person then?”

At that Clara put on a guttural mock eastern European accent and said,

“I am a creature of ze night. How dare you, a mere mortal, disturb my slumber in the hours of daylight.”

Then she broke the spell with a laugh that was more a cackle than anything else; definitely not particularly sexy, except coming from her it was, maybe all the more so for seeming so natural.

“I should have asked. You do like coffee? I could make you some tea if you prefer.” Then I wondered whether I actually still had some teabags somewhere.

But it was not a problem.

“Adam, I was kind of remade for you. That means that I don’t just have the ideal tits for you, which I can see you can’t help ogling, but it also means I like the same things as you.”

I was still trying to process this, both as a scientist trying to understand the implications, and as me, suddenly finding myself in a relationship with a succubus.

“So, I take my coffee white with no sugar and I really hate tea, just like you”.

She was right and at the same time it struck me as amusing that something that detailed in my tastes could end up being encoded in my semen.

Clara clearly needed that coffee, drinking it all in a matter of seconds.

“Can I smell some fresh croissants? I hope so because I am starving.”

I couldn’t help but ask, partly to tease her but also out of genuine curiosity,

“You don’t just exist on men’s seed then?”

She cackled that wonderful dirty laugh of hers.

“No. And just as well for you lover boy, because even though you do produce a lot and it’s truly scrumptious, if that was all I ate I really would end up fucking you to death like the legends claim.” And she waggled her eyebrows like a theatrical villain.

“I guess there are worse ways to go,” was my somewhat predictable response.

With that she rose from the bed, still naked. It took all my self-control not to jump on her as she grabbed my discarded shirt from the night before and wrapped it round her, before sauntering into the kitchen.

We sat on bar stools at my kitchen counter, Clara with her lovely slim legs on display beneath the shirt that only just covered her hips, and with just one button done up showing both her cleavage and her cute naval. She wolfed down her croissants and the pastry, drank a whole carton of orange juice and then reached for the bunch of bananas I had in my fruit bowl.

“Ook,” was my immediate response. She looked at me blankly, so I said,

“You know, like the orang-utan in Terry Pratchett.”

She was still looking at me blankly. O.K. so this was clearly not something passed on in my seed. Among the people I know and work with (sadly all too often the same people, and what you might call nerds or geeks) the Discworld books of Terry Pratchett are close to being Holy Writ, and even quite obscure references are instantly recognised. I made a note to get her to read them if I could.

“OK, never mind. He’s just a writer I like.”

To change the subject I asked,

“Do you always have this much for breakfast?”

Clara considered for a moment, then said,

“Well, I guess I’ve always had a healthy appetite, but the truth is I need to eat a lot more when I change; when I become someone new.”

Again the scientist, never that far away, came to the fore. This made sense thinking about it. It had to need a lot of energy, and raw material if it came to that. As she seemed willing to bring up the subject, I couldn’t help asking her more.

“How far back can you remember?”

Clara thought for a bit before answering me,

“Each time I change, for a new man, I lose some of the detail of my memories, so it gets foggier and foggier as you go further back. The earliest thing I can remember with any clarity is when that funny old queen died.”

“You mean Queen Victoria?” I asked, surprised to say the least.

“No, the one who was really pale and never married and made a real thing about being a virgin, though I doubt she was.”

I was kind of glad that I had paid attention in my history classes. Though to be honest, nerd that I was in school, I pretty much paid attention in all my classes, except for physical education of course (I stopped turning up and they never chased me up on it).

“You mean Elizabeth the First? Spanish armada and all that?”

Clara paused for a moment and then said,

“Yeah, that’s the one”.

So, she was saying that she was half a millennium old, at least, and yet I was inclined to accept it. Without me asking a question, she chose to tell me a bit more.

“As time has gone by it has been harder and harder for me to find a place. I don’t officially exist, no birth certificate, and nowadays there are more and more records. So, I have ended up living more and more on the margins, with crooks, cranks, refugees and so on.

“I think that is why I kind of decided ‘to hell with it all’, out of a kind of desperation, and told you what I am. I have reached the end. I can’t bear the thought of going on like this. And at the same time if I end up back in hell then they will make an example of me and …”

She sounded so forlorn and hopeless in that moment that I wanted to hold her and promise to protect her, but she carried on,