prompt & reply – Succubus

by Parker Dupris

succubus

 

Now and then I mostly-lurk on an erotic writing forum where people put up prompts design to attract writing partners. One author caught my eye with her well-styled work. This prompt below was about a female lust demon, tasked with corrupting a particular man. It was gritty, raw, and spoke of serious need. My reply to the prompt follows. Her writing is hers, mine is mine, and I thought I’d put it here because I enjoy the exercise of prompt-reply, and I enjoyed the way our writing styles seemed to resonate.

Her prompt – “Succubus”

She was exhausted.

Her arms shook, her thighs ached. Still she rutted against him, determination burning as hot as the fire that snapped behind her eyes, slitted against the sweat that dripped from her body, against the welling frustration and anger that threatened to consume her.

The little fucker was asleep.

She gritted her teeth, her eyes flashed. She summoned deep the last shreds of her strength and redoubled her efforts, grinding her greedy cunt against him in a driving furious impetus that should have killed him. She was going to fuck him to pieces, she was going to rip him open and eat his soul, she—

He snored softly.

A roar escaped her from deep within, born of rage and unsated hunger, a wretching hellish bellow that reverberated against the walls of the hotel room, cracking the glass of the mirror. If she couldn’t fuck him to death, she would just fucking kill him.

She fell at his throat with sharp teeth, her eyes glowing, her mouth stretched wide. Close enough to taste her own dripping sweat smeared across his skin and she was jerked backwards, away from him, the thin membranes of leathery black veined wings crushed tight, twisted around her naked body. Drug backwards through portals and passages never seen by any man before or since, drug by by her throat. She choked, clawing at the skin of her throat until she drew blood.

She landed with a heavy thud against cold stone, her wings broken, bleeding. She drew in great gulps of air, retching against the fire in her throat, against the desperate searing heave of her chest to draw breath.

Footsteps, a low rumbling voice. “That was disappointing.”

“I–I tried.” She coughed, sputtering blood and saliva against the stone floor between her splayed hands. She shook her head violently. “I don’t know what happened, Astaroth. I—”

He kicked her then, sent her sprawling backwards. Her eyes flashed fire, her teeth bared. She scrabbled to her feet and almost flew at him.

Almost.

Astaroth chuckled. She was so transparent in her intent, even now. Haughty, vain, petulant, easily the most insubordinate of all his charges. He relished what he was about to tell her.

“You have failed. Miserably.” He paused a moment. Ever the fucking dramatist, she thought. “He is not like the others. You must go to him, bind yourself to him. You—”

“No.” She spoke dismissively. “I won’t. I’m done with him. Send the others, send all of them. Let them feed on his wretched soul, let them see if they can do better. If I can’t, I doubt they’ll succeed.” Already she was preening, wiping the blood from her mouth, untangling the snarls of her hair with long white fingers. Her wings unfurled, stretched their full length as they mended themselves. “I’m starving. I’m going back up.”

He crossed the length of the room, locked his heavy hand around her throat. He lifted her so that her feet barely scraped the floor, leaned in close, his breath a hot, sour hiss. “You’re going back up, Lilith. But you will not hunt. You are bound to him now. This is Our command. Do not mock me, woman. Do not disobey. I will have you destroyed.” He dropped her, left her crumpled on the floor. “Go.”

She spat at his feet. A blinding flash of light, and then she was gone.

 

My reply:

He’d never encountered a need so vast, so utterly… compelling.

It was like how some men described the sea, or a long lost limb. But her need was up front, so visceral and insistent, and sensual. It defined her, and it seemed to be the source of her power. He sensed it across the crowded club, the song of it like flats and sharps caressing his soul, amid the revelers. It made him hard minutes before he even saw her.

He also knew she’d seek him out, that his radiation would draw her to him.

Later, under soaked sheets, he poured himself into her, stretched her willing walls wide and drove the spike of his purpose between her spread legs, attempting to fill that gaping need, thrust after thrust. His body a loaded spring, coiled to deliver deep into hers enough energy to shake her warped, broken world. The taste of her mouth, the feel of her sweat mingling with his, the sounds that carried out of the room. Primal, base expression, a joining. Like a melee.

She clearly looking to subjugate, conquer him through taking, he in turning seeking to overflow her, to render her need inert. As the moments drew out and the scratched multiplied across their backs and chest, it was hard to tell if he was gaining purchase on her lust, and then he felt himself slipping away… tumbling into darkness.

There were long moments, undefined. Then he smelled wet dirt, and wheat after a rainfall.

Reaching out with his senses, he realized where he was, now. Not in bed with her, not inside her. He stood up. The sunset over rolling wheat fields threw orange and purple of every shade into the sky. A gentle breeze caressed him.

He made his way to the farm house, worn paths and weathered wood. He stepped inside, to the smell of fresh coffee, a small, porcelain cup of cream along side.

“Sit,” Yves said, his countenance of a gentle old man yielding very little of the immensity of his power. “Drink.”

He sat at the old wooden table, poured the cream in, and drank the pungent brew. It filled his being with warmth, a sense of together-ness that apparently had a slight cinnamon taste. It strummed the chords of his being in a way he’d never experienced before, with each sip.

The light of the late afternoon rayed in through the kitchy colored curtains over the sink. After he finished his cup, he looked to Yves, who was regarding him with infinitely deep gray eyes.

“She would have destroyed your vessel. Had to draw you out, make some modifications. You’re sleeping now.” Yves either sensed his response, or knew it an eternity before he brought the thought together in his mind. Either way, he addressed the question before it was asked. “An oversight. You’ll do better next time, I know. I have faith in you.” This last, with a smile.

“You’re going back,” Yves continued. “You’re a superior instrument and I went to some amount effort to arrange things to this point, but I’ve just made you better, a little tweak.” Yves gestured with a weathered chin, to the empty coffee cup. “Try spilling into her more often. You won’t match her endurance; the tear in the fabric of her being she’s drawing strength from is too vast.” He waved his hand, gently, dismissively. “Seek to repair that, to plug it up. More cream in the coffee.” Yves chuckled, at this.

He accepted the words, though his failure still stung him. “I don’t think she wants redemption…” he said to Yves. But the willingness to keep trying obvious in his tone.

“Probably true. But often our choices have very little to do with how things wind up going. That sort of choice mostly is a gift for humanity, not so much for the Instruments. Keep at it, young one.”