After almost two months of weekly postings of stories, this will be the last posting in the Tale of the works entered in the 2009 Realm of the Succubi Halloween Writing Contest for this year…
This last work is by James and takes a little dig at a particular actress and her portrayal of a Succubus…
And what happens when one critic has her way with her…
Here is the final flash of this challenge, the only one to include the Queen herself, inspired by her feelings about a certain movie. It also owes a debt to an episode of MM’s New Lesbian Conspiracy, though I went in a slightly different direction, as I am not so fluent in Canadian.
All through the evening, all through the party, the horns passed from person to person, creating different effects in different wearers. Just about everybody in the room was allowed to experience fantasies they never dreamed they had, or forced to face depravities they never dared contemplate.
Just about everybody experienced this. But not her.
She came with her own horns, after all. Clearly part of the outfit she had worn to the party: a red sheath dress—shiny, either vinyl or latex—that displayed her cleavage quite nicely and came about a third of the way down her thighs, almost meeting her black fishnet stockings with the kitschy red pitchforks at the tops of them. Those little pitchforks matched the shape of her playful red sequined purse, while the black of her stockings matched her opera gloves and the raven curls that cascaded down her back and over her bare shoulders. Those shoulders, indeed, all of her skin, was a tan, yet almost reddish color. But not as red as those horns she wore—horns that made the outfit—or the pointed tail that slipped out and moved as if it had a life of its own. She was a symphony of red and black.
Except for her eyes: sparkling green eyes, eyes that drew anybody who noticed them right into her orbit.
Toward the end of the evening, her tail swishing behind her, she scooped up that other set of horns. And then she was seen no more at the party.
Well, not at that party, anyway.
At a trendy party in West Hollywood, a young actress named Bibi Vixen—the current hot commodity among the sea of actresses who were too young, too thin and too cardboard for most post teens—was holding court among a coterie of friends and sycophants. She was currently the center of attention for her role in a teen slasher flick where she played a succubus as something of a cross between a stripper and a werewolf and a vampire.
The stunning woman from the first party stepped up behind Ms. Vixen. She didn’t appear to have horns and tail any more—well, not unless one really looked—and her campy evening bag and hosiery had been replaced. This, after all, was no costume party.
Bibi turned and saw the woman, and was about to say “I’m sorry, but no giving autographs this evening” when she was rendered silent just for a moment by those impossibly green eyes. The stunning brunette, standing about half a head taller than the waif actress, popped the charmed horns on the shorter woman’s head. Suddenly, everyone and everything faded away, and the actress noticed that she was not the only one with horns.
“Bibi, dear, don’t scream. Well, you cannot, really. We can maintain the illusion that we are the only others in the room only so long as we don’t do anything too overt to draw the attention of the others. So I have arranged for you not to be able to scream.”
The actress did not care to be told what she couldn’t do, and wound up for a blood-curdling yell: “The hell I can’t scream, bitch.” Unfortunately for her, it came out about with about as much venom as a parochial schoolgirl reciting her rosary.
“I told you so,” the visitor smirked, “and please try to watch the language, ‘kay?
“Now, I have a bone to pick with you. You have helped a phalanx of half-witted screenwriters perpetrate a horrid, incorrect image of a succubus. Where did all of this violence and gore and anger come from? “
“Look, lady, nobody knows what a succubus is really like, because they don’t exist. And, in the second place, I’m only the actor; I just play the script I’m given.”
The visitor remained implacable: “In the second place first, darling, you have a mind of your own, at least allegedly, and you could stand up for yourself in your choice of roles and how they are portrayed. It might even help your career.
“In the first place—second, I know—you are about to know what being a succubi is really like.” She sent a stream of warmth breath across Bibi’s bare shoulder, and the horn-clad actress shuddered and moaned more than during her last four climaxes with her lover. “Succubi are sensual creatures”—the visitor’s tail stroked the back of Bibi’s leg, and her knees nearly buckled as juices began trickling down—“everything is about arousal and enjoyment, never violence. Even pain”—she playfully nipped ear of the actress, who whimpered—“is meant for pleasure for us.”
Suddenly, in this room where they had been alone, a man appeared, and Ms. Vixen wanted him, hungered for him. She felt the raven-haired visitor whispering, “As a succubus, you have this need.” She pulled the man to her, and he grew into her: “no one can resist you, dear.” She felt, tasted, energy flowing into her, “and this act feeds you.”
A woman appeared next to them; nothing spectacular on the outside, but Bibi couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Yes, Bibi,” the voice in her mind breathed, “You cannot look away.” The two women meshed mouths, lips, tongues, and there were more streams of energy: “When you are a succubi like me, you give as well as get . . . and you are never alone.”
Bibi was dressed again, standing before her visitor, alone: “This . . . I . . . may I stay like this?” she pleaded, politely.
Her visitor in red snatched the costume horns away: “You’re not really ready for this, dear.”
And she was gone. And Bibi Vixen was in the midst of her party, as if no time had passed, and she partied on, but there was something . . .
When she went to bed that night, there was a note on her pillow, with a red lipstick kiss:
“When you’re ready, I’ll look you up.
*huggles for my heart and his words as always*