Jan 07 2011

My Favorite Year – A Succubi story by JHB

For this first Friday of the new year, I am sharing a story that, more correctly, should have appeared earlier this week…

James, as some readers of the Tale will know, is a dear friend of ours and this past New Year’s Day he shared a wonderful tale of one Succubi in my Realm as part of an anthology posted on the MC Garden, and eventually to the EMCSA…

It is called My Favorite Year…


My Favorite Year


I stepped into the mortal world just outside of London, in the 1869. It was interesting how all the proper lords and ladies moved so quickly from the somber, chaste Watchnight service at the parish church to the soirée at the manor house. It was during that surprisingly obvious procession that I slipped in, my green tail and horns concealed. But my more human form still made even these sexually-repressed skirts and bustles seem slinky. My cleavage and figure, of course, did not require a corset, but none of them got close enough to know that.

Eyes were all over me as we stepped into the ballroom. Men and women alike regarded me with that practiced Victorian disdain; and yet, at the same moment, I could feel their leering, wanton, just-as-Victorian curiosity, a lust almost equal to my own. Some were calculating the force required to rip my bodice open, but my gaze was gravitating to the few who were judging which laces to pull so that my frock would fall away even more quickly. A few well-placed glances and a raised eyebrow allowed me to encourage those more elegant planners, but, even in them, the hypocrisy—the sense of being oh-so-courtly and superior while still having a wild debauch with the new girl—was enough to make me choke.

The first chime to herald 1870 summoned a gasp of anticipation in two handsome women and a sexy man.

Too bad. I was gone before they could blink.

The Left Bank of the Seine one winter in the 1890s seemed far more promising. Even the chillier of those longest nights of the year were warmed by copious amounts of wine and revelry among the artists, writers, and dancers who frequented a certain café. Not an evening went by when I really needed to do more that lightly blow over their libidos to get a roaring fire or three in my bed; one lithe and leggy redhead tongued me to a frenzy I had never thought possible from a mortal.

But there was this painter . . . such a quiet soul. Not inexperienced, certainly not virginal, but such an extremely placid soul; he did not give into his hankerings too lightly or too often. Uncorking this one would certainly yield an excellent vintage.

Which is why I spent those final nights of the year playing with him, petting him, flirting in a way that bordered on the shameless, even among these Bohemians. As we gathered with the revelers in the street late on that final night, we could hear bells from Sacré Cour and Notre Dame—I loved his little gasp as the first bell chimed and I gently stroked his pleasure center. As I pulled him into a more private corner, my mind opened his eyes to exactly what I truly am. He could see my tail and horns as clearly as the gold flecks in my brown eyes, eyes that were unlocking his psyche as the word “succubi” echoed in his mind. And I was right: all sorts of passion were welling up as the second bell chimed.

And yet . . . something funny tasting was mixing with my pheromones. His mind’s eye was breaking every inch of me down into basic geometric shapes. All his fervor was for me as an object, for the stories he could tell with me on a canvas. Now, I had no trouble with such adoration, and I was quite sure that I could mold that into more immediate gratification if I wished, but he was just too cool to be worth my while. The third chime found that young impressionist quite alone and confused in the dark.

I visited the 1920s twice: first for this rum-runner outside of Chicago, who was nice and all, but who had been ill-effected by his own product—everyone in the party had counted down to eight, and he didn’t even twitch; by the time they reached seven, he was flaccid alone into the new year.

But there was this very cute, very . . . pliable young woman in Berlin. She seemed to be very turned on by these militaristic types in the brown shirts and the boots. Well, I liked leather as much as the next girl . . . well, succubi . . . and we had a few fun, dalliances, but, as the new decade was about to dawn, as I pulled her into a hallway outside that party . . . I began to realize that she was actually interested in the politics of these brown-shirted idiots, not their fashion sense. When my true nature was revealed to her and the last vestiges of her free will formed the thought “. . . a pity. Blonde, blue-eyed succubi could serve the Fatherland so much better . . .”, I was gone between the revelers’ shouts of “sechs” and “fünf.” I sometimes wonder whatever happened to Eva.

The Americans were so strange after that war with what they called the Axis powers: they were so affluent, so dominant, so arrogant, and so paranoid all at the same time. Still, the whole middle class men-commute-from-suburbia-while-the-women-stay-home-alone milieu, combined with the pressure to conform and the repression—especially for women—that came with that, made for some tasty hunting.

One particular housewife, very perky and blonde, made for a wonderful autumn. I was her chestnut-haired next door neighbor (complete with an enthralled, respectable, middle-management drone everyone thought was my husband). It was such fun the first time I noticed her eye wander from the reddish highlights in my hair to the curve of my blouse. She was absolutely convinced she was straight, but so receptive to the fantasies I planted in her mind during afternoon coffees, fantasies that I could feel becoming fevered dreams each night. I loved how she visualized herself still wearing her pearls and pumps as she ate me out in her dreams—that wasn’t an image I planted. This young mother had real potential; she almost missed seeing her cream-cheese-sculpted boy and girl unwrapping their presents that Christmas because she needed to recover herself and change her sweaty sheets.

Six days later, the corners of my mouth were certainly still upturned at the thought of her dreams juxtaposed with that white bread Rockwellian tableau. It was the neighborhood New Year’s Eve party, which Dro . . . ummm, Drake and I volunteered to host, mostly so that I could control the venue and not worry about slipping away with my ripe target and wandering into some rec room filled with children in footies and some pubescent teen sitter. By 11:00, there was copious drunken, informal spouse-swapping going on. Unfortunately, before it got truly interesting, somebody switched on Guy Lombardo, and their white bread training kicked in.

I stepped up behind my coffee buddy, touching the small of her back just as the crowd shouted “Ten!” I could smell her panties moistening as I wordlessly summoned her down a hallway, everyone calling out “Nine!” As they said “Eight!”, she could see my horns and feel my tail moving those wet panties out of the way under her skirt. I was pleased that she accepted my form with so little hesitation, the minor resistance being like the piercing of some psychological hymen, expanding her world. “Seven!” echoed down the hallway as I began to introduce concepts such as “pet” into her accepting mind. “Six!” Everything was progressing nicely.

It was only when the count reached “Five!” and my mind presented an equal sharing as lovers to her, that she recoiled. Her mind was too committed to the suburban fiction, the two-point-five children and the wedded bliss, to accept the yearnings that were in her heart.

I’m sure Drake showed everyone a good time and cleaned up before he went to bed. I wonder if he had any idea what to do when he woke the next morning without me to instruct him.

That was a very disappointing winter, and it took me a long time to get back in the game.

But I was warmed by memories of Henry VIII, who was quite fun (though I’m sure Catherine didn’t appreciate me as a houseguest) and much more virile than his portraits might suggest. His daughter, Elizabeth, was even more insatiable; she would have made an excellent black tail. Neither of them was much for submitting, even when they learned how exquisite it could feel. Still, even with the disappointments, there were joys and learnings.

And all of these experiences have brought me to you, sweetness. In their own way, I think they have each prepared me in many ways from which you will soon benefit.

This is such a lovely spot, isn’t it? I confess that, after all these New Year’s Eves, this is my first visit to Times Square. It’s nice that I was able to acquire this penthouse suite; while we are removed from the crowds, I think you’ll appreciate the privacy.


Oh, my . . . we can hear them all from here, even. And your mind is opening just as well as I expected.


Yes, that is my tail wrapping around your waist, pulling you to my arms and up against my breasts as my eyes fill your perception. It is so nice to smell the arousal, to taste the acceptance in you.


Oooo!! Your mind was saying “pet” even before I could introduce the concept! Yesssssss, that’s it . . . you will enjoy this so so soooooooo much.


Our clothing melts away, and yet we are surprisingly warm for a December evening thirty stories above New York City. Your quick inhalation at seeing all of me is precious, especially considering how the purple latex I wore this evening left so little to the imagination. And your form is . . . quite nicely firm. It is so good to see signs of the excitement I caught a whiff of before.


It is also cute to see you blushing like that, your eyes sparkling at the same time, as you process all those suggestions I have given you of what we might do together . . . oooo!! You are dropping a few of your own in there. So delightfully naughty!


Yes, that’s right, precious: you will submit to me, you will be the pet, yet we will be equal partners in the relationship. Yes, we will make choices and decisions together; you will bind your will to mine, which is so much better than if you just lose it. Yes, it is a paradox. But imagine what it will be like to accept that contradiction and spend a lifetime working it out with me.


You are doing it! You are opening your mind to the ambiguity! You are growing, and exploring before my eyes and . . . . unnnnnhhhhhhhhhh! . . . you are making me hotter than I have been in ages, lover.


As I pull you into me now, our skins molding to one another, our pulses and respiration beginning to sync up, your leg between mine is, no doubt, beginning to notice my growing wetness. I’m not sure I have wanted anyone in ages the way I want you.


Mmmmmmmm . . . yes, baby; taste my kiss. Feel the fire burn in your mouth, your throat, down to your very core . . . feel us flow together . . . feel our lifetimes flow into . . .


Through that door . . . yes, right there . . . is another world—the quiet, undisturbed nest within the Realm I call home, where we will explore our bliss together. You are ready. It is time.


Ohhhhhh, baby! Pulling me almost faster than I can lead you! It looks like this could well be my favorite year.


Firstly, before anything else, I want to thank my heart for sharing this wonderful prose with me… It’s a beautifully written piece from the first person perspective of the Succubi… That’s something I have never been able to write myself and I know that it’s not something easily accomplished…

And you did so incredibly well my heart…


Thank you again for sharing your words with us all…


1 comment

  1. avatar

    It is always a privilege to share my words with you, Dear One. And you help me accomplish so many difficult things . . .

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