When I was just a boy, I was afraid of the monster under my bed. I was young and much I now know was a mystery to me. I would do everything in my limited repertoire of tricks to keep from going to bed before I was exhausted. When my father was there at bed time and could remember it was bed time, he would be stern and make sure I got there on time. But, oftentimes he forgot or, being exhausted from being a police officer, would fall asleep in the big chair while I was still awake. Those nights, I would curl up on the couch with the lights on and sleep within the sound of my father's breathing.
My mother was gone when I was so young that I can barely remember her any more, except as a vague impression. The nights my father had to work (and they were many, ) Uncle Jack or Aunt Sara or Noelle or one of the church ladies would come over and watch me. Some let me sleep with my light on. Others waved away my concerns and turned off the lights "for my own good."
As soon as they put me to bed, I was up, across the room, turning on the light. I don't know how old I was when I started doing this, but I was young enough to have no guile. By the time I was five, I had figured out that I could fold up my pants after taking them off to sleep and shove them under the crack in my door so that no one could see the light was on. This got me almost a week of restful sleep before my father, opening my door to call me to breakfast, found my pants wedged there and the light on while I slept. It was the only time I could remember the gentle man giving me a spanking. Even at the age of five, I knew that his heart was not in it.
After that, I started waiting for whoever was watching me to go back into the living room and, if they were old enough, fall asleep themselves. At six, my bed time was seven thirty. I was in bed by seven thirty. The church ladies were usually asleep by nine. So, for an interminable hour and a half, I would lie in bed, staying as far away from the edges as I could, not moving and not wanting to attract attention. The monster would whisper my name seductively, "Stephen." I had no idea what seduction was at the time, but I found myself being seduced anyway, torn between wanting to give that plaintive voice whatever it asked for and not wanting to give the monster an opportunity to grab my feet and drag me into the darkness.
Of course, this still meant a mad dash for the light switch in the dark. I would wait until the monster whispered "Ste... ," then run for it, bolting across the room. It would whisper the "... phen just before I flicked the light on. It didn't matter. With the lights on, I was safe.
I'm sure that my parents knew I was sleeping with the lights on. I would wake up with my father poking his head in and announcing breakfast often enough that he must have realized what was happening. But, he made no mention. It was my introduction to the idea of an "uneasy truce."
I asked my father to come and chase the monster away, of course. But, his monster-hunting skills had sadly atrophied from his youth if he'd ever had them at all. He started out by turning the light on, thus guaranteeing that the monster wouldn't be there when he called. Then, took taken my favorite baseball bat and choked up on it.
"All right," he called, "all you monsters get out from under there. The time of reckoning is at hand."
"There's only one monster," I told him.
"Only one?" asked my father. "Well, you're not even outnumbered, then."
My eyes widened, "But, it's a monster... and I'm little."
"Well," said my father, "if it can fit under your bed, it's not a very big monster, is it?"
I thought about it. In the light, it made perfect sense, "I guess not."
"And all you have to do if it comes after you is get the light on, right?"
I nodded.
"Well then," said my father, turning the bat in his hand, "just keep this close to your bed. If you're heading for the light switch and she grabs your ankle, just whack her wrist with it."
Until then, I hadn't really thought of the monster as having gender... or wrists for that matter. But, I sensed that my father knew what he was talking about.
"Dad?" I asked as I leaned the bat against the wall by my headboard, "Could I maybe have a night light?"
My father's face darkened, "A big boy like you?" he chided.
I felt ashamed at having acted like a baby and resolved to sleep with the lights off that night. Laying there as quiet and still as possible, I kept my eyes closed and tried to sleep.
"Ste-phen," called the monster. Now that he'd mentioned it, I realized my father was right. The monster's singsong had a definitely female cadence to it.
I gripped the bat in my hands. Defiantly, I said, "Go away."
"Stephen," the monster said more harshly, "keep your father out of here."
My breathing became quite shallow. It was the first time the monster had said anything other than my name while I was awake. I had a feeling that it said other things while I was sleeping or half asleep, but when I tried to grasp those words, they eluded me.
"No," I shouted. "My father's going to come back and chase you out."
The monster laughed, chilling my spine, "If he comes back when it's dark, I'll eat him."
I was so scared, I started crying. I wrapped myself around the bat for protection.
"Don't cry," whispered the monster, her voice still chuckling, "I won't eat him if he stays away."
"No," I said sobbing, "you'll eat me instead."
The monster said nothing. The next day, she said nothing. For five days, I lay in bed, wrapped around my bat and fell asleep without hearing so much as my name.
The fifth day was my eighth birthday. We had a party. I don't remember much of it, except that I fell asleep at the end of it and must have been carried to my bedroom. I dreamt of a carnival and woke with the smell of fairway in my nostrils and what felt like a cat licking the dried strawberry ice cream off of my lips and a weight on my hips. The monster wasn't under my bed. It was on top of me. I shrieked and reached for my bat, but it wasn't next to the bed where I left it. The monster was off of me in an instant, disappearing under the bed.
A few seconds later, I heard my father's heavy tread in the hallway. Remembering what the monster had told me, I hurriedly ran to the light switch and turned it on so that she wouldn't eat my father.
My father and Noelle burst in, dressed for bed. My father's face was pinched and tight, "What's going on in here?"
"I..." I said, "I thought I saw something outside the window."
I thought I heard a snicker from under the bed. My father gave me an odd look. Noelle turned to my father, "Mike, turn on the outside lights and have a look around, would you?"
With a second suspicious look at me, my father went off to find a robe. When he came back, he said, "There's nobody out there. It must have been a tree or his reflection. Go back to sleep, tiger."
I was a long time getting to sleep that night. As I lay in the darkness, clutching my bat, my father and Noelle spoke to each other in low voices in the living room. I strained to hear and, several times, the words "night light" were mentioned.
The next night, before going to sleep, I shoved every item I could move under the bed until it was packed solid. Still exhausted from a sleepless night before and all the heavy lifting, I fell sound asleep, wrapped around my bat. I woke up to Noelle's shrieks of alarm. The room looked like it had been ransacked, every item I'd pressed under the bed having been flung against the walls. Toys were broken; clothes were torn; and I was grounded for the next two weeks.
I thought the grounding a small price to pay, though, when I turned off the overhead light the first night after that and a night light winked into brightness, bathing the room in just enough of a glow to keep the monster at bay.
For years, that was the end of it. I began to sleep more easily, but never with the bat far from my reach. When I turned twelve, my father tried to talk me into getting rid of the night light. I said I would consider it, not wanting to sound foolish talking about monsters again. I was nearly a teenager. My classmates who had talked about monsters had given such talk up as childish many years ago. I wanted to do the same.
That night, I heard my father and Noelle talking in low, angry voices. It was the first time I had ever heard them argue about me. Noelle, only eleven years older than me, had been my au pair, but was now more like a big sister. My father, even though he had been a cop for a long time before taking his current job, was not the sort to push me to "be a man" or engage in random acts of machismo, but he seemed to be fixated on the matter of the night light.
The next day, I did the bravest thing I'd ever done. Before going to bed, I unplugged the night light. That night, I slept fitfully, but never heard a sound. For a week, I listened to the darkness, but heard nothing but cicadas and traffic. After a month, I was sure that the monster was gone.
At fourteen, I fell in love with Gretchen Kelly. She was sixteen and beautiful and completely out of my league. I was at turns ecstatic and miserable, sometimes within the span of a single sentence. I went to Noelle for advice and she gave it until my ears burned red like they were branding the sides of my face. At night, I had the most incredible dreams about Gretchen with her soft, blond hair and without her tight sweaters.
I woke from one such dream to hear a loud creaking from my bedsprings and the sensation of a weight lifting off of me. Looking down, I saw my cock standing firmly at attention, glistening in the glow of the street light as if wet. I reached down with two fingers, wiped some of the wetness off and smelled it.
It didn't have the sour smell like when I masturbated. It smelled sweet. Trepidaciously, I touched my fingers to the tip of my tongue. It tasted like strawberry ice cream.
I don't know if my breathing was shallow before then, but it was shallow now. I struggled for a half-remembered sense of a sandpaper tongue licking me in my sleep. After a few seconds of hesitation, I bolted from my bed to the light switch and turned on the light.
I woke up half-willing to be convinced that I was crazy. It would have been easier if I were crazy. My father had tired of the monster long ago. Noelle would listen and humor me even now. But, I knew that was all it would be. There was no help there.
I had started a desultory program in weightlifting when I first realized how Gretchen seemed to gravitate towards muscle boys. But, the incentive to be consistent was tied to how I felt about my chances with the object of my desire from moment to moment. Now, I began in earnest. I had managed to wrangle my way into the gym at Uncle Jack's company a year earlier by virtue of being quiet and unobtrusive. I started heading there nearly every day after school. My high school had a gym too, but the senior muscle-heads treated it like their own personal domain. And, besides, middle-aged executives were much less intimidating to work out in front of than teenaged Adonises.
Sometimes, at night, the combination of muscles healing and growing pains was agony. I only cried once though, waking up with the sensation that I had just missed the monster licking my face and the sickly-sweet scent of strawberry ice cream heavy in my nostrils.
Being fourteen, my lust had cast a wider net than would land on just Gretchen Kelly. I was still too shy and awkward for it to matter to anyone but me, but it made the longing less intense to know that there was always another girl around the corner who might possibly be the one.
I even convinced myself that I was over Gretchen. I was--to the degree that the mere mention of her name no longer sent me into a state of daydreams and fantasies that blocked out all other sensation. Then, the most amazing thing in my life happened. As I was waiting on the lunch line, Gretchen came up behind me and said in her whispery, angelic voice, "Hey, Stephen. Looking good. You must be working out." Then, impossibly, incredibly, she reached out, gripped my bicep in one hand, and gave it a squeeze.
I don't remember what I said in response. I've blocked it out. I'm only left with the realization, come to many years later, that I made a fool out of myself.
Still, those words and that one touch were enough to inflame my passion for Gretchen again. I kept working out, but I spent an increasing number of hours mooning around the house over her. Noelle picked up on it fairly quickly.
"What's up, Stevie? You see kind of distant these days."
I just grunted. A moment earlier, I had been sitting on the couch, staring off into space.
"Ah," said Noelle knowingly. "Girl troubles."
I laughed, "I had no idea my grunts were so expressive."
Noelle laughed and sat down in my father's favorite chair, legs crossed Indian-style beneath her, "I'm just playing the odds. I remember how boy-crazy I was at fourteen. Since you haven't shown any bent in that direction, I figured it must be girls."
I nodded. Noelle asked, "Who is it this time?"
"Gretchen again," I admitted.
"Really?" asked Noelle. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it to herself, and leaned forward, interest keen in her eyes.
I ended up telling her everything. Somehow, it was always easy to talk to Noelle, even if she was, strictly speaking, my stepmother. She would answer any question I cared to formulate as completely as she could. Once my ears stopped burning, her advice usually made good sense. So, I asked, "Noelle, what am I going to do?"
"You really want to know the answer, Stevie?"
I nodded vigorously.
"You're fourteen. She's sixteen. That makes you at least four years younger than the guys she's liable to be interested in. Plus, you've got the great driving divide. It's going to be a real uphill battle trying to compete with guys who have cars."
"But, what can I do?" I recognized that the last word came out as a whine, but it was too late to call it back.
Noelle shrugged apologetically, "The best thing you can do right now is get on her radar. Ask her out. Let her reject you. Be gracious about it. In a couple of years, try again."
I was crushed, "You mean, there's no chance she would say yes now?"
She shook her head, "There's always a chance, Stevie. But, I wouldn't expect it."
I scowled, "I should just skip it, then. What if she told everyone I asked her out? I would die."
"You would also save yourself two years of pining over a mean-spirited bitch who would do something like that to you."
"Gretchen's not like that!" I protested.
"Then, you have nothing to worry about," said Noelle, smiling.
I resolved to do as Noelle had suggested. My friend Andy was having a huge Halloween party this year, within walking distance of both my house and Gretchen's. Despite what Noelle had said, I thought there was a pretty good chance that Gretchen might say yes. Still, I dithered and waited until the party was a week away.
I managed to catch Gretchen walking between buildings with no one in immediate earshot. Gathering up all of my courage, I said, "Uh, Gretchen."
"Oh, hey Stephen," she said, slowing her walk so that I could catch up, "what's up?"
"I... uh," I was starting to sweat. The next words came out in a rush, "My friend Andy is having this big party Halloween night. I was wondering if you wanted to come... with me."
Gretchen's face clouded up, "I would love to, but I promised I would take my little sister trick or treating."
"Oh," I said. "Well, some other time, then."
"Yeah," she said, smiling sweetly. "Some other time."
I was crushed for the rest of the day. When Noelle inquired as to my rotten mood, I tried to put her off, knowing that she'd told me not to expect success. She persisted though and, as usual, I ended up telling her everything.
When I finished, she pushed my shoulder and laughed, "So, why didn't you ask her for another time, dummy? She gave you an opening and you dropped the ball."
I lowered my head, "I didn't think I could take any more rejection."
She took a lecturing tone, "Oh, no. What you thought was that you wanted to keep pining more than you wanted to take a chance and possibly get turned down."
"I did not," I protested.
"So, ask her again tomorrow." said Noelle, shrugging.
It was said casually, but it was clear that Noelle had thrown the gauntlet. The next day, I followed Gretchen as much as I could, waiting for her to be alone and approachable. It never happened. I ended up missing the school bus in a last, desperate attempt to catch up with her before cheerleading practice.
I hung around, waiting for cheerleading practice to end, hoping I could catch her before I had to get on the extracurricular activities bus. In hindsight, I stalked her a little, but didn't know that's what I was doing at the time.
When she came out of the gym, she unexpectedly turned right. Walking forward, towards me, she would have been headed for the buses. To the left were the student parking lots. To the right were the elementary school, then nothing but woods. I didn't know why she was headed that way, but I finally had my opportunity to approach her.
Unfortunately, I did not act quickly enough and had lost sight of her. I tried the front door of the elementary school and found it locked. Running around the back of the building, I thought I saw a flash of red cheerleading uniform on a dirt path leading off into the woods. I knew the path to be a shortcut to the football field and followed.
It was dark and the path was rough. It had been worn smooth by thousands of feet over the years, but thick, gnarled roots still stuck up in places, ready to snare the unwary. I was so focused on where I put my feet that I missed the path where Gretchen had turned off in the twilight. Again, only a flicker of red, this time caught in the most extreme edges of my peripheral vision, showed me where she had gone.
I backtracked. The path she'd taken wasn't much more than a deer run and ran steeply up the side of a mountain. I didn't know how I would explain to her why I followed her into the woods, but it seemed hugely important to me that I find out where she was going.
I stumbled at one point, sliding backwards down the path and falling on my ass. I scrambled back up the path until it intersected with a dirt road. I'd never known there were any roads up here. Not seeing Gretchen in either direction, I chose one way at random, following it until it reached a long, dark tunnel in the mountain. The tunnel looked like it hadn't been used in a hundred years. It was full of undergrowth and spiderwebs. I retraced my path.
I might never have found them if I hadn't heard her voice.
"Come on, Barry," she pleaded. "It's starting to rain and I'm cold."
"But, baby," a male voice wheedled. "I've been waiting for this all day. And, I can't take you home. My folks are there."
I crept closer. There was a car parked on the road, an old Ford from the seventies or early eighties, when they still made them like boats. I saw Barry Stewart, one of the seniors who had made it so unpleasant to use the school's weight room. He was standing mostly still, eyes closed.
I think I knew what was happening, but I needed to see. I crossed the road so that I was looking straight down the side of the car. Kneeling in front of Barry was Gretchen Kelly, eyes closed, her head bobbing up and down on his cock.
Afraid of being spotted and horrified at what I had seen, I stumbled off of the road, heading down the side of the mountain. There was no path here and the darkness was close to absolute. Heedless, I barreled down the side of the mountain. At some point, I slipped on a wet patch, lost my footing, and began an uncontrolled tumble that ended when I knocked into something solid. There was a sharp pain and then, blissfully, I passed out.
When I came to, it was pitch dark. I heard rain pounding down on everything around me. I reached up and felt blood on my face. I shivered a little, but realized that it was only from cold. I, and the leaves around me, were mostly dry. I looked up at the sky, trying to figure out what was protecting me from the rain.
I could see nothing, but listening carefully, I could hear the tone of the rain. It sounded like it was hitting the roof of a canvas tent. I tried to stand up, but collapsed when I tried to put weight on my left leg. I had strained or broken the ankle.
I lay there, panting in the darkness. Above me, I heard a rustle and sensed a presence.
"Who's there?" I called out.
There was a rush of wings and I was doused in cold water. The tree I had come to rest against creaked dangerously as if a great weight had settled on it. For a moment, I saw a few, dim stars and the moon through a thick cloud, then they were blocked out by a canopy closing over me. But, in that brief instant, I had seen the shape of the canopy. It was a pair of wings, huge batlike wings.
The monster under my bed was up in the tree. I froze.
After a moment, my terror was overlaid with machismo, "All right!" I shouted. "I can't run. No one can save me. Come and get me."
I waited in the ensuing silence, expected any moment to be torn apart.
Instead, the monster started crooning. The sound was eerie and terrifying at first, but soon it became a lullaby. I felt like it must be one my mother had hummed wordlessly to me before she died, but couldn't say why I thought so.
I wept in pain and desolation and heartbreak, over being lost and wet and cold, over Gretchen and my mother. I cried like I could never remember crying. I cried myself empty and still sobs wracked my chest.
When I finally stopped sobbing, I lay there, emotionally numb and physically aching. I closed my eyes and listened to the wordless crooning. In what seemed like only a few minutes, I was asleep.
I woke again before dawn. For a few long seconds, I didn't move. The canopy was much closer now, embracing me. Arms were wrapped around my chest from behind. And, a distinctly female softness was pressed against my back.
I tried to turn abruptly. As I did, I felt a rush of wings and abruptly went from sitting up to lying flat on my back. Fortunately, my head landed on a pile of leaves. I tried to scramble to my feet and was immediately reminded not to by a warning pain in my ankle.
I looked around, but the monster was nowhere in sight. Sighing, I searched around myself for a stick that could be of the approximate length to act as a makeshift crutch. Finding one, I started to hobble downhill at a snail's pace. I fell two more times, but had been taking my time and neither fall hurt much.
At some point, the sun rose and I could see more clearly. I was close to school grounds. In another hour, I managed to get to the pay phones and call home.
My father was frantic, but primarily relieved. He and Noelle showed up at the school in record time, but instead of taking me home, took me directly to an emergency room.
While we waited, I gave an expurgated version of what had happened to me. I admitted following Gretchen up the path and finding the dirt road, but claimed that I stumbled in the dark and fell off the side of the road before finding her. Of course, I didn't mention the monster.
I expected my father to yell at me or punish me or at least say something harsh. Instead, he said quietly, "I'm getting you a cell phone."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. I'd asked my father for a cell phone over the summer. He'd told me absolutely not. I was too young to have a cell phone. We'd fought about it for weeks. It was still a sore point. I felt like I was being rewarded for being stupid.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," said my father. "I'm going to use it to keep tabs on you the next time you're five minutes late."
I laughed, not because I thought he was kidding, but because I knew he wasn't. My father had always been overprotective, but usually fought very hard to hide that fact.
"Thanks, Dad."
The doctor patched me up. I had sprained my ankle and sustained a mild concussion. None of my cuts needed stitches, though. I was ordered to take a few days bed rest and report back if I had any lingering headaches.
Noelle doted over me for the next few days. My father did too, from a distance. He made sure I had everything I needed and checked in on me periodically. Wednesday, as I prepared to go back to school, he said, "By the way, if you ever do anything this stupid over a girl again, I'll crack your skull myself."
I laughed. The idea of my gentle father doing something so violent was absurd.
I don't know how much attention I paid in class. My ankle ached and I was still obsessed with both Gretchen and the monster, although they had somewhat changed places in my mind. I couldn't shake the idea that the monster had been protecting me that night in the forest, watching over me, even worrying about me. As I watched Gretchen, I started to realize that she was either a monstrous tease or sleeping with a dozen different guys. It only took a week and a kind word from a pretty girl from the junior class before I was over Gretchen completely.
That Friday night, I lay in bed by myself, by young body vibrating with the almost palpable lust that was more or less my constant state of being at the age of fourteen. For the first time, though, it had no immediate target. I stroked myself in an almost absent-minded sort of way. First, I tried to imagine Gretchen, on her knees or over the hood of a car. The idea did not hold the fire it once would have.
I tried imagining the other girl, the one who had complimented me earlier in the week. But, I couldn't remember her name or clearly bring her face to mind.
I began to feel deeply sleepy, still stroking myself, but without much enthusiasm. I struggled to hold on to wakefulness, sensing that there was something very important I should be registering with my conscious mind.
I lost the battle, but won the war. Just before I was lost to the land of Lethe, I caught and held the fact I was fighting for.
The monster was singing me to sleep.
My dreams were vivid and intense. I was making love to a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who sang to me while I drove myself into her. It wasn't the same song that I'd heard in the woods, but I knew at the same time that it was another one of the monster's songs.
I woke at daybreak, the sheets drenched in sweat and wrapped around my limbs as if we had been fighting during the night. I reached down and touched myself, but found that I was dry and a little bit sticky.
I'd heard plenty about wet dreams and wondered why I'd never had one, considering how intense and erotic my dreams often were.
Suspiciously, I licked my fingers, reached down and stroked some of the stickiness off of my cock. Raising it to my nose, I smelled what I had rubbed off. Then, I touched it to my tongue.
Strawberry ice cream.
The next night, I did an experiment. I deliberately stroked myself gently, seemingly absentmindedly while waiting for the song. Now that I was listening for it, I heard it immediately when she started singing. I let myself doze off and again had the most incredible dreams.
For a week, I repeated the experiment. After the first couple of days, I stopped bothering to check what the dried miasma on my cock smelled and tasted like because it was starting to gross me out. Each night, the dream was the same, varied only by the increasing creativity of the sex acts and their distance from anything that my limited experience could have helped me invent in my own head.
I woke up each morning feeling both refreshed and drained. I found myself able to focus in school, no longer spending most of my time casting furtive glances at the girls around me. It seemed to have the opposite effect from what I expected. The less attention I paid to girls, the more they paid to me.
It was easier to talk to them, too. The blood from my cock was no longer pounding in my ears. I had a new woman to obsess over--one with dark hair and eyes and huge bat's wings.
I did not have the same problems with my beautiful monster that I had with Gretchen. I never mistook her for an innocent angel. I had a name for what she was.
Succubus.
I had begun to surreptitiously read up on demonology and succubi. I learned little that I hadn't already figured out. What was damnably vague was that many of the references agreed that succubi stole the seed of their victims, but not how she went about that.
Although I had no evidence, I was certain that she had been sucking it out of me. In many dreams, she knelt before me on a dirt road in the rain. It was often the only scene that recurred. Besides, I often woke sure that I could still feel the aftereffects of her catlike tongue on my cock.
I wanted more. I was enjoying myself in my sleep, but I wanted the waking experience. Besides, I was worried I would die a virgin one day and wasn't sure if having my cock sucked qualified as losing it.
I tried to imagine what advice Noelle would give me if I could tell her everything. She would probably tell me to try to talk to my succubus. But, if I could get it through her head that talking wasn't really an option, she would tell me to go for it.
I decided to go for it. My birthday was coming up and I reasoned (in my fourteen year-old mind) that fifteen was old enough to have sex.
I went to school as normal that day, then went out to dinner with my father and Noelle. There was a party planned with friends my own age for the weekend, but tonight, after everyone else went to bed, was what I was really looking forward to.
I was sitting at the kitchen table when my father came by, dressed for bed, "Heya, kiddo. Don't stay up all night."
"I won't, Dad. I just want to get some studying done."
Surreptitiously, I checked the time, giving my father and Noelle an hour to get to sleep so that I wouldn't disturb them. Then, I went into my bathroom, took the earplugs I'd bought myself out of their package, and went to bed.
I could still hear her siren's song through the plugs, but it was muffled. Soon, I closed my eyes, stopped stroking myself, and feigned sleep.
Then, I waited in the darkness. It seemed to take a long time for her to make an appearance, but I finally felt her weight on the end of the bed. As her lips wrapped around my already-hard cock, her wingtips rose to caress my face.
Even through the earplugs, I could feel the pull of sleep. Even as she wrapped her lips around me, she continued to hum her song of lethargy. I knew I had to act quickly. With both hands, I reached down and caught the back of her head.
She tried to pull away, but I entwined one hand in her long, black mane, forcing her head further up my body. Her hands clawed for purchase, catching on the tight skin of my ribs and belly. My other hand pressed against the center of her back, keeping her body pressed close to mine. She fought with an unholy strength, but I refused to let her go.
When I had her face over my heart, I tried to flip her over. She went part of the way, but used her wings to regain balance. Flapping them gave her a huge advantage in leverage. I managed to catch one in my hand, forcing it to hold still. Once I did that, it was much easier to flip her over so that I was on top.
She cried out in what was unmistakably pain. I stopped, staring down at her face.
"Stephen," she whimpered, "wings hurt. Twisted."
Both of her wings were laying to one side and, as she said, twisted. With one hand, I lifted her head. With the other, I took one wing and gently pulled it behind her so that both were spread out behind her in a more natural pose.
I had deliberately moved everything breakable out of the reach of the bed, but her wingspan was nearly twelve feet and caught the lamp anyway, toppling it from its table. It hit the floor with a thud.
"Stephen," she cajoled, "sleep. Let me."
I looked down at her. She was exactly as I had dreamed, dark and exotic looking, even without the wings. Her dark, liquid eyes looked up at me, pleading. But, I sensed that this, too, was a game. She was the one that had sent me the dreams that informed my next action. I reached down and caught both of her wrists, forcing them above her head and transferring them to one hand.
My other hand came down and cupped her breast, "I want to touch you."
She undulated under my touch, her breast rising to fill my hand, "Stephen..." she pleaded.
"Tell me your name," I said, taking a fingertip and toying with her nipple.
"No," she hissed. Her lower lip was trembling. "Please, Stephen."
I leaned down and kissed her lips. Her mouth opened hungrily, enticing my tongue in. Her tongue was like a cat's, her teeth pointed and sharp. Her mouth tasted like the best strawberry ice cream I could imagine. What I had tasted before had only hinted at the taste of her.
She moaned against me. As I pressed the kiss, my hand slid down her belly, parting her legs. Her body was already quivering on the edge of orgasm. I knew this on a level beyond what I could explain.
"Your name," I insisted, breaking the kiss.
"Sara," she whispered.
My finger slid inside of her, stroking and teasing, "Your whole name."
"Stephen, no," she cried out.
I found and stroked her clit, sliding a second finger deeper inside of her. I knew how to do these things because she had taught them to me in my sleep. She moaned at the touch. I stroked her slowly, building up. She was hyper-responsive. Her body trembled and writhed at everything even my inexperienced, but well-informed hand did to her.
"Tell me," I insisted.
"Stephen, let me... drink you. Don't take it away."
"Later, Sara, if you do as you're told."
"Stephen, I am for you."
The phrase was puzzling. I paused in what I was doing, "What do you mean."
"I am for you. Like I was for others, others who have forgotten."
"What others?"
She shook her head, "Never tell."
I began stroking her again. This time, I only teased, being very careful not to let her come. She tried to impale herself on my fingers, but I pulled away, "Fine, then tell me your name."
She closed her eyes and refused to answer.
"Sara," I whispered in her ears, "I'm on to your game now. Tell me your name or I'll fight you. I'll never let you drink again."
There were tears on her face now, "Please."
I almost relented, but then thought back to all the time I had been terrified of her. I was dealing with her on more equal footing now, but if I let her go, I knew I would be afraid of her again. Instead, I took her clit between two fingers and rolled it back and forth.
She came hard, bucking and squirming, trying to fight me off. It was all I could do to keep her pinned.
"Your name," I growled. "You are for me. With your name, I can keep you forever."
She shook her head, "Not forever. Never forever. Always, they go too soon. Promise for life. Promise you won't forget."
I didn't hesitate, "For life, I promise."
She nodded and told me her name. I repeated it. She nodded again.
"Xaranmathrakamayatifi," I said again. "You will obey me."
She nodded again.
"You will obey me, even if I call you Sara and not your true name."
Again, the nod.
"Sara, leave your wrists where they are," I growled. "Do not move them until I tell you that you may."
"Yes, Stephen."
I released her wrists. Now, both hands stroked and pet her, kneading her breasts. Her hips rose and fell in serpentine waves. Her whole body trembled in pleasure. Her wrists stayed firmly in place above her head. When my hand fell between her legs again, she opened them wide for me. I stroked her and fingered her, but she couldn't be more ready than she already was.
"Sara, I'm going to fuck you," I told her bluntly. "You can move your wrists, but you are to do nothing to stop me from doing as I please to you."
She nodded eagerly, "Yes, Stephen. Fuck me."
I was surprised at her enthusiasm, "You want me to fuck you?"
She pressed her hands into my buttocks and tried to drive me inside of her, "You have my name. I want as you want."
"You don't want to... drink me anymore?"
"I want as you want," she said insistently. "Later, I will drink."
"And, if I ordered you not to drink?" I asked.
Her face paled, "Please, Stephen. I must drink." She begged.
I remembered the books, "Do you hurt me when you drink?"
She shook her head vehemently, "Never hurt. Only drink."
"Then you can drink when I sleep," I told her, "like before."
"Thank you," she whispered. Then, she pushed against my buttocks with increased urgency. This time, I didn't resist, instead letting my cock be driven into her. After the first thrust, I didn't need to be urged forward. I pounded into her with a combination of lust and fury. I was losing my virginity and conquering my monster with each thrust.
Her legs wrapped around mine. Her nails left furrows in my back. I lasted maybe a dozen thrusts. Even after my earlier release that evening, I was too excited to go further. Still, when I collapsed, spent, she looked at me with eyes shining and a deep flush to her pale complection. A few minutes later, she slid down my body, kissing as she went, before starting to lick as much of my seed off of my cock as she could.
Mellowed, I started to consider the advantages of having my own succubus. I had to admit that they were numerous. The only downside seemed to be the reports that claimed a succubus stole your seed to rob you of your soul or vitality or to give birth to a changeling. I had decided that they were merely superstitions. Besides, I could always ask Sara later.
As I was thinking, the licking had gotten me ready for another round. I looked down at her, "Sara?"
"Yes, Stephen?"
"Get down on the floor and kneel with your back pressed against the bed," I ordered.
"Want to drink," she insisted.
"Sara, do as you're told," I ordered.
She did, kneeling naked in the moonlight on the side of my bed facing away from my bedroom door. It was not so different a pose from the one I had seen Gretchen in the night I sprained my ankle. I stood in front of her. She eyed my cock hungrily, seemingly torn between taking it into her mouth and following the letter of my command.
I straddled her legs, one foot on either side of her on the floor. With my cock almost touching her nose, I said, "Drink."
She took to it hungrily. I leaned down and wrapped my arms around the back of her head, hugging her and holding her close as she greedily sucked my cock.
I was standing in that position when my father opened the door to my room. If I weren't too far gone, I would have lost it at that point. But, Sara gripped me firmly and kept me driving into her mouth.
Despite the fact that Sara's wings were plainly visible and that his fifteen year-old son was being fellated by a succubus right in front of him, my father's eyes focused on the bed, where I normally slept. He smiled down and closed the door. The next day, for reasons I'm not sure he was aware of, he would go buy a lock and install it on my bedroom door.
But, for the moment, I was wrapped up in the here and now, fighting off the edge of climax. Sara gripped my buttocks hard. It was all that I needed to push me over the edge. I came in great gobs down her throat. She looked up at me smugly as she licked off every last bit.
Exhausted and spent, I collapsed on the bed. Sara stayed kneeling where she was.
"Come to bed," I said. "I want to hold you."
She did, placing her head on my arm, and covering us both with her wings.
"Sara, why didn't my father see us?" I asked.
She stared at the door, "I was once for him. But, he is one who has forgotten."
The enormity of the statement hit me, "You... drank from my father before I was born?"
"Yes... before the Violet. The Violet made him forget."
Violet was my mother's name. But, there was something else on the edge of my mind. Finally, I grasped it. Sara had said that my father was one of many who had forgotten. I wondered just how long she had been around, but decided not to ask. She looked about eighteen. I decided to let the illusion last.
"I should go," she whispered. "Sunrise soon."
"Under the bed?"
She nodded, "I go through under the bed."
"One thing before you vanish, please?"
"Yes, Stephen?"
I took out the earplugs, "Sing me to sleep."
It took only a few notes before I was sound asleep.
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