This past October, James posted a Halloween Tale of a Succubi on the EMSCA…
((Linky in the sidebar on the right…))
He has allowed me to post his works of art in the past and I am going to post that story here…
Because it’s wonderful…
And I want him to know just how much I adore every word that he shares with me…
Thank you my heart…
Ike couldn’t believe he was on the subway at this hour, and on Halloween, no less. He never used to mind Halloween, not until a couple of years ago, not until that drunk driver ran that light and came careening down their quiet street in the Village. He’d been out there, with Trish, enjoying the autumn air, walking home from a café, expecting to watch the wild Halloween parade out their window a little later. His hand was so warm and safe in hers, her arm wrapped around his waste in that way lovers had of walking so close together that it was a miracle they were still standing up—and, of course, they really didn’t want to be most of the time.
The street had been in that pleasant sort of twilight that looked as if the sun had set but the sky was still eerily bright, and the street lamps hadn’t quite flickered to life yet. Because it was one of those narrow and bent lanes that wasn’t supposed to exist in a major metropolis, there was never much traffic, and they had no chance to see what was coming until the behemoth of an SUV roared out of nowhere, its lights tearing through the deep violet veil of night, tearing the fabric of their world into shreds suddenly, viciously. He only ever saw those lights and the shadowy outline of the murderous vehicle; never the driver’s face. Ike’s heart had caught in his throat and his breath and wits had left him, he was so terrified.
And now he hated himself for getting so scared.
If he hadn’t been a useless deer in the headlights, he might be home with Trish now. There would have been a Valentine’s Day wedding instead of a Thanksgiving weekend (after he got out of the hospital) interment of her ashes. They would have had dinner at that café again tonight, watched the parade out their window, snuggled under her afghan, and then maybe have stayed snuggled under the afghan until All Soul’s Day. Were it not for his shocked paralysis, he wouldn’t have to look for excuses to avoid the parade every year, despite the fact that so many good friends were part of it. They all understood, of course. But he still fondly recalled the days when he would help them plan their drag, help shave and/or bind appropriate parts of their anatomies to carry off the hilarious looks they imagined.
Before those weeks and months of waking up in a cold sweat, night after night, seeing that accursed vehicle breaking through the deep violet darkness of his dreams, his heart pounding out distress calls, his body petrified, never seeing the driver’s face, he had looked forward to Halloween. Now, he actively sought ways to avoid it.
Being out this late on this night, however, was not among them.
Scrabble had been his therapy, of sorts, after the accident: something he could play while recuperating; something that engaged his mind; something that he had never, ever played with Trish (she was more of a “Twister” sort of woman). Best of all, he could play it on his computer, which had served his desire not to be around people. But he was good with words . . . very good with words . . . and it wasn’t too long before he was beating the computer. That was when he discovered that his software allowed him to compete with others on-line.
Not too long after that, he met Katy—cyber-met her, at least.
Katy was WordLoverEternal within the Scrabble on-line community. She was one of the only players who could keep up with him and occasionally best him. After three of four months of this, they met each other in person at a community Scrabble tournament at the 42nd Street “Y.” She seemed kind of sweet, in a kid-sisterish sort of way. Then, or the three or four times he saw her at other Scrabble gatherings in the following months, her somewhat mousey brown hair was either loosely tied into a ponytail behind her head or braided into two slightly slackened pigtails, one next to each ear. She seemed very fond of sweaters—almost always orange or with some orange in them—replaced by oversized T-shirts in the summer, always worn with relaxed-fit jeans and sneakers. A pair of horn-rim glasses dominated her nice but unremarkable face.
Ike found he could talk—well, type, usually—with Katy. He didn’t tell her every detail about that terrible night, but he had related his loss and his terror, and his discomfort with Halloween. And he had told her enough about his day-to-day life that she realized he’d kept entirely to himself ever since Trish died. Mostly, they would chat for a few minutes about the weather and such before one or the other of them said, “Let’s get on with it; get your letters.”
On about Columbus Day, as they found each other in cyberspace for one of their thrice-weekly games, the following appeared of Ike’s screen:
WordLoverEternal: How about you come play a couple games at my place on the 31st?
What was this? Ike let the image shimmer on the screen for a moment. Was she coming on to him? No, this was Katy, but . . . He decided he needed more.
Katy was back to him much more quickly.
WordLoverEternal: Well, you said you hate being home on Halloween. It’s one of our usual Scrabble nights; I thought you could come to my place and we’d play with the tiles and board (I do have them).
IkeCr89: Oh! I thought you were thinking about a . . . well . . .
WordLoverEternal: what?? a date?? Are you nuts?? You said you thought of me as a kid sister!! 😛
Ike realized how foolish he sounded, and realized she was making a kind gesture. Within short order, everything was agreed upon and they began their usual game. Ike didn’t give it another thought for two and a half weeks, until the morning he opened his IM window and found:
WordLoverEternal: Working all day, and my cell phone is out, but should be back just before you arrive. All ready; even vacuumed the apt! Later!!
Now he couldn’t get out of it . . . not politely, at least. So here he was, climbing up from the “A” line station by Columbia and walking toward Riverside Park. Part of him idly wondered how Katy afforded to live up here, but chalked it up to rent control. Then he noticed how dark Riverside Drive was near the park; dark and a bit eerie, even with the street lights. In fact, a lot of what they did simply exaggerated the shadows of the eclectic mix of modern, art deco, and even neo-gothic architecture in the neighborhood. Not what Ike needed, really. Add to that the purple sky—not dusk so late but a bit of light pollution—and the slight warmth in the air, and to Ike’s already edgy nerves it felt very much like . . .
An SUV flew around the corner Ike was rounding, running over the curb just a few feet away from him before it sped down the street. All he saw were headlights and the shadowy outline of the vehicle as he felt the breeze of its wake. He never saw the driver’s face.
Katy saw Ike flushed and panting, sweating, eyes bulging, almost unable to speak. She brought him in, sat him down, and gave him a glass of wine to calm him a bit. Step by step he stuttered out an explanation of what happened, and suggested that perhaps he should just go home.
“Don’t be silly,” she tsked. “you have come all this way. And besides, are you really ready to go back out on the streets right now?”
Ike knew he wasn’t. Katy walked over to the coffee table where the board was set up, her pigtails bouncing on the shoulders of her green sweater. “Let’s get on with it; get your letters,” she teased.
Sighing, Ike sat on the pillows by the table, allowing Katy to have the seat on the sofa, and drew seven tiles from the bag. Nothing very useful. Maybe his mind was still addled, but the best he could do to start the game was “ONE.”
Katy immediately played off his word to spell “PHEROMONE.” She grinned impishly as he sighed, and then thought, for a moment, he noticed something in the air.
“Are you wearing perfume?” he asked.
“Does ‘Dial’ Soap count?” She stuck her tongue out.
He decided it was his imagination. “CARE” was his next word. Not a good night.
Her turn: “CARESS.” He thought he felt a soft touch crossing his cheek, trailing down his throat and chest. But his shirt was still buttoned and Katy was still on the other side of the table, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He shook his head, drew some tiles, and played on; nothing spectacular.
“PECK” was her next word. He reached up to his mouth, as he was sure he felt unseen lips meet his own.
When she laid down “WHISPER,” there was hot breath in his ear.
“RUFFLE” came up next, and he felt fingers running through his hair. When he stared at Katy, trying to sort this out, she simply raised an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if something is bothering you or exciting you,” she observed. Even Ike wondered if he was bothered or slightly, slightly . . . was he aroused?
The play continued, even as all of the sensations continued for Ike. After she put down “LIPS,” he felt the sensation of kisses all over his body. “STROKE” made him feel as if a very feminine, yet strong, hand was inside his pants; both his erection and his distraction were growing exponentially.
Katy smiled in a way that made Ike wonder if she knew something, but his head was spinning too much to think really about it. He couldn’t say anything to her: how do you tell a platonic friend who has invited you over for Scrabble for the first time that you are feeling very horny? He would look like some sort of pervert, and he’d lose the only person he’d felt comfortable with since Trish. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the feeling to stop. Each passing moment made him less sure.
“You don’t seem quite on your game tonight,” Katy said, her tone halfway between concern and a friendly taunt. “Or maybe you have more trouble with a flesh-and-blood opponent, one on one, than with a computer screen or in a gym-full of people. But never mind, because this should put the game out of reach for you.”
“DEVELOPS” used up all seven letters on her rack, covered a triple-letter-score square with the “V,” and hit a triple-word-score marker as well. One hundred and sixteen points with one word and a commanding lead, to boot. Ike stared at the board. If he wasn’t feeling more sexual tension than he had in two years, if his body wasn’t reeling from lust-driven hormones and remnants of fear-induced adrenalin, he might have been staring in disbelief. But that came as he looked up.
Katy was wearing a green tube top that hugged her “C”-cups and her slim waste, stopping just short of her black leather slacks that made a second skin over her shapely ass, ending at her high-heel ankle boots. Her soft auburn curls with reddish highlights cascaded over her shoulders and part-way down her back. Her glasses were gone, giving him an enchanting view of her chocolaty-brown eyes with bright green flecks. Ike just sat there, looking up at her, blinking.
“Are you getting the idea,” this was no longer a kid sister speaking, “that this isn’t your everyday Scrabble game?”
Finding himself unable to speak, Ike looked away, down at his own rack. There he saw the word “PUSSY” and looked up to see her full red lips smiling, her legs opening, and her hand with perfectly painted purple nails beckoning him. His only thought was that word, and he pushed the table aside and buried his face in that inviting cleft, smelling the leather, smelling her, and licking as if his tongue could open the seam of her pants and reach the goal. As each second passed, his efforts became more and more fevered, and she appreciated his efforts. One hand, fingers entwined in his hair, was pushing down on his head, encouraging the efforts of his mouth and the friction of the leather against her pussy. The other hand was gently petting his arm.
And his pants were soon opened, and she was stroking gently behind his scrotum.
Suddenly there was a thought in his head: “How is she petting my arm, holding my head, and stroking my balls all at the same . . .” His head popped up, he sat back on his heels with a start, and he stared at her lovely body, including her orange horns and tail. “K-K-K-K-Katy . . .” he stammered.
“Actually, my sweet,” she licked her lips as she purred, “the name is Katrina, Katrina Van Tassel. And I’ve been around for quite a while; haven’t I held up nicely?” She gestured at her body. “I knew a fellow with a name very much like yours up by Tarrytown a couple of centuries ago. The combination of fear and a contest worked very nicely for him, as well. You were already challenging my mind on-line, and when I saw your body, and then heard your story, I thought a similar headless—or at least faceless—encounter might be just the thing. Changed the contest, though. I really didn’t like that swordplay, ‘specially when that Bram was doing most of it. Succubi Scrabble was much better.”
“There was no . . . no . . . s-s-s . . . no creature . . .”
“It’s ‘succubi,’ darling.” She was mildly annoyed, but soon she felt better. After she pushed at his thoughts a little more, then placed his hands on her lap, his preoccupied mind set those hands to work eagerly undoing her fly.
“There was no . . . succubi . . . in ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’.”
“Well, that stuck-up English prig—What’s-his-name Irving—decided the story needed sanitizing. My ending was much better.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him deeply. She was glad she did. His lips tasted as sweet as the samplings she’d been taking from his soul all these weeks, and there was a strength to his mouth that she thought she saw but almost didn’t dare hope for. Well worth the wait, to be sure.
As the last bits of his mind completely vaporized, Ike’s tongue began to duel with hers. Her thoughts were beginning to bleed directly into his mind, and his hands had slid around from her fly to her hips, his fingertips still hooked under her waistband. She moved his head down, amused when he tried to suckle her breasts through the tube top—“Oo! So eager! There will be time enough for that later.”—and returned his face to her lap.
“Pull down the pants, sweetness,” she almost giggled, “with your teeth.” And he did. She was impressed with his efficiency, though it may have been that he was inspired. With a few touches, a thought or two, and a bit of cooing, she directed his tongue to exactly the right point. He certainly had some skills; he must have done this with Trish. Mmmmmm . . . very good boy.
For his part, Ike couldn’t believe anyone could taste this wonderful. Then, as he felt the tip of her tail tracing his spine, from his hairline to the crack in his ass, he shivered all the more, which had nothing to do with the fact that his clothing dissolved as her tail touched it. He was lost in deepening spirals of ecstasy.
Katrina’s mind could feel Ike’s thoughts first waver, then flounder for a moment, then swim in the new sensations. And her body appreciated it all as well. She enjoyed how this stimulus made him redouble his efforts, relished the work of his lips, teeth, and tongue, her own pleasure growing until finally her nails were digging into the sofa cushions while he was swallowing her amazing flow.
As she stood over him, he remained kneeling at her feet—“such a good boy,” she thought, smiling. It only took a look to have him slowly peeling her slacks down her legs—again using nothing but his teeth. She let him stand and use his hands to pull the tube top over her head, but with a firm instruction not to touch her body. He didn’t. He skillfully maintained his hands centimeters away from her skin, though something inspired him to gently blow on her skin wherever his hands passed by. He was following instruction to the letter, but also taking some marvelously provocative initiative. Katrina realized that training him was going to be wonderful!
She kissed him deeply again, pulling him close with her tail and taking the time to nibble his neck and lick his chest. Yes, a very tasty morsel, and an eminently enjoyable toy. Without removing her tail from around his waist, she took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
The next morning, he awoke, spent and pleasantly dazed, in his own bed, in his own apartment, in the Village, quite naked. He felt more alive than he had since losing Trish and, while he couldn’t believe that his memories were real, he was just as sure he didn’t imagine them.
Ike pulled on a robe and padded into the kitchen to find coffee. On the counter, he found a now-familiar Scrabble set, the tiles arranged on the board with a message:
YOU DID WELL SWEETNESSWILL COLLECT THIS SOONSO WE CAN PLAY MOREK
This had all been real! She had been real! And she would be back to collect her board. He felt a small tingle at that thought.
But the tingle was replaced by a much larger wave of ecstasy when he felt her whisper in his ear: “I’ll be back to collect you, as well . . .”