Demon Lovers: Succubi

by Lori Selke

  “Forgive me, Chance. I need this tonight, but tomorrow, when we meet again, you can fall for me for real.”

  She raised up, reaching between them and guided him to her opening. His head slipped easily into her, and she contracted around him as she adjusted to his entry. Then, with one downward thrust she impaled herself on him, throwing her head back and her heavy breasts upward into the air. Her nipples contracted even more as she sat on him fully, that fullness rubbing a button deep inside. She lifted, slid down, lifted, slid down and her bare breasts swayed and juggled with her movements. Needing more contact, she reached to his slack arm and pulled his hand to her chest, rubbing the palm of his hand across her now sensitive nipple.

  The contact with his hot palm created a wave of pleasure inside her; she undulated inside, squeezing his hardness full length, and he sighed in his sleep. His hips moved involuntarily, rubbing her inside again, and she squirmed, screwing her pelvis back and forth, then rocking forward and back. The muscles in her pelvis clenched and the light sheen of sweat that was covering her body slickened so that his palm was now sliding back and forth from breast to breast, nipple to nipple. She clenched, unclenched, slid up, down, forward, back while the wetness between her legs built. Nearly there, she slid up, down, bouncing him against the mattress as she rode him harder and harder.

  Just as her orgasm hit, contracting her inner muscles, she let her head fall forward, both hands now holding both of his against her swollen breasts, thrusting her hips over his when his eyes opened and he screamed. She fell forward, taking his lips with her own and breathed his screaming warm air into her lungs. What followed was an orgasm that had filled her out like a beautiful, living blow up doll. Her hair smoothed from its dry, dull afro into a silky mane of brown that shimmered and moved like waves of water while her hips undulated and ground into his. Her chest filled out, hips rounded, legs, arms and butt plumping into a feminine shape. While she sucked his moaning ecstasy into her self, feeding her succubus on his pleasure.

  On and on it went, she scrubbing his hands on her breasts while sucking his mouth until she was spent, the wetness between her legs soaking them both. It was only then that she realized he was no longer screaming.

  Fear contracted her chest this time and she jerked her hips off him, pulling his now slack penis from her vagina, and it slapped wetly onto his groin. She ignored it, putting her ear to his chest.

  “Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.” She chanted over and over, but no breath raised the chest. The hollow drum of the skinny white chest didn’t beat.

  “Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god,” she moaned as she frantically jumped from the bed and began to search for her clothes. “Oh, my god, oh, my god!” She couldn’t stop the chant. Her hands searched her clothing, finally coming up with her cell phone, and she flipped the keyboard and speed dialed her only friend.

  “Come on! Come on! Please answer, oh, please answer.” One ring.

  “Come on!” Two rings.

  “Oh, my god. Celeste! Please answer!” Three rings.

  “Oh no! Celeste please!” Four rings.

  “Hello kid.”

  “I killed him!” Aimee screamed.

  “What?”

  “Oh, my god Celeste! I killed him!”

  “You finally did it, kid?”

  “Yes! Yes! I did it, but I think I killed him!”

  “What happened?”

  “He woke up! I didn’t know what to do so I kissed him.”

  “Oh, kid. Then what?”

  “I don’t know! I just kept kissing him!”

  “While you were fucking him?”

  “Yes!” The shame she should have been feeling was hidden by the fear of death.

  Celeste sighed. “Did he go back to sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, suddenly afraid to look.

  “Sweetie, you can sometimes just knock the bejeezis out of ‘em. Look again. Is his chest moving?”

  Aimee closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly so the tears couldn’t escape. She turned her body so she was facing the bed, then slowly opened her eyes.

  Chance was pale, stark white on the dark sheets. His hair was flopped up, like someone had run their hands through it from the forehead back. His skinny arms were flung outwards, open and childlike. His skinny legs, speckled with dark hairs, were limp against the bed. She forced her eyes upward, over his now flaccid genitals, the wetness there tightening something inside her that was both exciting and shameful. Upward over his concave belly, the skinny ribs sticking out, the thin chest and pink nipples. Nothing moved.

  “No. He’s not moving,” she whispered again.

  “Look again.” The demand was harder.

  She looked. Nothing. His chest was still. Tears welled, spilled over her cheeks, nose already running a sludge of snot that gathered on its tip. She swiped at her eyes.

  “He’s dead. I killed him. Oh, Celeste. What am I gonna do?” She wiped at her nose, running the snot from her wrist along her arm then sniffing. “I finally figured it out, and then I go and kill him.” She slumped to the bed, sitting beside the still warm body. Absently, she touched his arm, rubbing along its length letting the hairs on it tickle her palm.

  “He’s not dead, l’enfant,” Celeste murmured, this time without sarcasm. “Now look again and let me go back to what I was doing.” Celeste’s voice was breathless, heavy and Aimee knew that she had interrupted her friend in the middle of a feeding.

  Abandoned, she flipped the phone onto the pile of her clothes and slumped over on the bed.

  “Oh, Chance. What have I done?” And his fingers lightly brushed her arm. “We could have been so happy. I just had to go and screw it up,” she mumbled, then sat up, looking at him fully.

  “I am so sorry, Chance. I didn’t mean it. I wanted to love you, not kill you. I was gonna meet you at the coffee shop tomorrow, just bump in to you and let you ask me out. Then we would have dated for a few months, you could meet my parents, and then you could propose on our first year anniversary, and when we moved in together we could have sex any time, and I could feed the succubus when you dreamed. It was perfect. and I screwed it all up.” She stared at him, memorizing his narrow face, the hint of the beard, the Adam’s apple.

  He swallowed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Calling Syn—Lilly Cain

  Canadian author Lilly Cain writes steamy, well-plotted paranormal romances and science fiction tales that are notable for their striking characters. One such is Julien Black, a powerful magician who is central to her new novel, Claiming Syn. Her short story in this anthology, “Calling Syn,” is a prequel tale that shows how Julien first meets the succubus Syn, and what comes of that perilous encounter.

  Lilly’s conception of a succubus is subtly complex. Folded into a sexy plot-and-character-driven narrative, she weaves in elements of mythology, applied magick, questions of consent and abuse of power.

  While such layered nuances may be appreciated by the reader, the characters in this story are concerned with much more pressing matters. When the succubus Syn is compelled against her will, she learns the instrument of her summoning is the magician Julien. For Syn, there’s only one terminal way to deal with an affront like that.

  But on this point, Julien has an idea or two of his own…

  Calling Syn

  “Not necessity, not desire—no, the love

  of power is the demon of men.”

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  “Mr. Black, are you ready?” Julien’s client called to him from outside the workroom.

  Julien didn’t look back. It wasn’t wise to pay too much attention to the identities of those who hired him to raise a demon. Whatever they said or did was up to them. It was their deal, not his. Instead he concentrated on the magic.

  Demons were tricky. If any tiny element of the spell was incorrect and the demon arrived without the proper binding, they inevitably went after the summoning magician and made a meal out of
them, preferably while said magician was live and screaming. And that was before they devoured your soul.

  Julien wiped the blood from his blade. His forearm throbbed where he’d used the knife to slice through his skin, just deep enough to bring forth the required ounce of blood. He ignored the part of him that screamed a warning he knew too well. Offering his own blood instead of an animal sacrifice tied him to the demon summoning a little too closely. But killing for profit, even a small animal, seemed worse somehow than risking himself. Those little deaths beat at him. The last time he’d been forced to kill, he’d wondered if he would ever get over the feeling of regret as the tiny heart of his sacrifice pounded out its last rhythm. He hoped not. If he didn’t feel it any longer, didn’t hate it and regret the necessity in some part of his own heart, would there be anything of his soul left?

  Magic required sacrifice. There was always a price. There was no escape from it, and no way to stop. The power of it—the way magic rushed through him like adrenaline, leaving him feeling strong yet vulnerable, so open to the forces that breathed life into every living thing—was an addiction and a necessity. Magic was a part of every fiber of his being. He could no more stop practicing magic than he could stop breathing. And, since it also paid the bills, Julien had mastered the summoning spells, along with those that were considered more acceptable to the general populace. Levitation and teleportation were interesting, but he got paid to raise demons.

  “Mr. Black.” Impatience underlined the customer’s voice.

  Julien walked the circumference of the workroom, and studied the chalked outline of his spell on the floor. Everything seemed primed, ready for whatever was about to take place. When he called on a demon, it was usually an imp or a lower level information dealer. This was something different. In the middle of his carefully inscribed incantation, a wrought iron bed crouched like a waiting spider. The blackened metal shape of its headboard, with its sinuous curves and intricate design, was at odds with the shabby condition of the building where Julien performed his magic.

  The customer had brought the bed. And provided the name of the demon.

  Sex magic. The whole thing reeked of it.

  “Mr. Black, we’ve got a schedule to keep. Are you ready?”

  Julien looked back at the man impatiently glancing at his watch. An expensive suit and sunglasses put him more at odds with the location than the bed. Who schedules in a demon fuck? Julian shrugged. He pulled his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and tapped a design into the air. He erected a glowing privacy screen, its walls blocking the view of the bed from nearly any angle. “The spell is ready.”

  Julien stepped aside, expecting his client to walk into the room and get to business. Instead, the suit opened the outer office door, ushering another man inside. Only then did Julien realize that the first man was just a front; that the real customer had probably been waiting in a car in the shadows of the alley outside. Recognition hit him quickly, but years of dealing with the scummier elements of the city kept his expression blank. Mayoral candidate David Contreau.

  “Mr. Black, please proceed.” Contreau pulled off his long coat and handed it to what Julien now assumed was his private assistant.

  It was still none of Julien’s business. Whatever Contreau required from a demon wasn’t something Julien needed, or wanted, to know about. Although, word on the street was the probable next mayor of Miami could and did have any woman he wanted. He didn’t need a sex demon, not unless his preferences ran in a direction too kinky for possible public exposure. And if they did, he was still risking a lot even being here.

  Contreau walked toward the privacy screen. “Don’t touch the chalk,” Julien warned him as he rounded the corner. Contreau ignored him, but it didn’t matter. The chalk delineated the spell, but it wasn’t the power that held the demon in check. That was all Julien.

  Julien glanced back at Contreau’s assistant. The man looked slightly nervous; a bead of sweat fell and darkened the collar of his shirt. When Contreau’s assistant noticed Julien watching, he swallowed hard and turned to stare pointedly at the door. Whatever he expected to happen, he was clearly wishing it was already over. Julien strode to his worktable and picked up the vial of his own blood. His stomach turned. Every time he did this, called forth a creature from hell, he risked his life and soul. If it wasn’t for the money—if it wasn’t for his sister Jenny’s expensive medical treatments—he’d never do it again. He’d stick to white magic. But she needed surgery if she was going to see again, and he needed the money to pay for it.

  The sound of metal on metal caught his attention just before he poured his blood into a waiting flame. Julien stared at the screen and checked the flow of power in the room. Whatever Contreau was doing, it wasn’t messing with the magic. He tipped the vial, and spoke the words.

  * * *

  It pulled at her. A calling; a strong one. Someone wanted a Daughter of Lilith, tonight. Excitement rippled through the temple as speculation on the summons burned through the ranks of acolytes who should have been concentrating on their duties. As the call drew stronger she paused in her duties as priestess in the Temple of Lust to walk to the pool of revelations. She placed a single finger on the rippling liquid. The pool stilled and flame flickered from her touch to ignite the oils within.

  “Syn.”

  Realization gripped her. They were calling her, calling her by name. It could only be one man. Fear and anger pulsed within her. A summons should mean pleasure and power for a Daughter of Lilith. This was something else. Already she was changing, unable to resist the summons. She looked out over her acolytes and saw their eyes close as they glanced away from her, some in sorrow, and others in fear. She looked back into the pool at her reflection. Her once pale skin ripened as she watched, the color shifting from creamy flesh into the shade of blood. Her skin felt tight over her face and pain bloomed in her back, both high and low. Wings she could live with, but the ignominy of the tail bit at her.

  She was being commanded to the earthly plane by Contreau. He only wanted to steal from her, to take and take. Why could he at least not imagine her as some woman of his own kind? Instead, in his twisted mind he summoned her with the image of the beast. As if it would be less sadistic of him to torture a creature for power than a woman. He was wrong. And if she ever managed to break free during one of his little sessions she would kill him for it.

  Her world shifted around her. She clung to the edge of the pool, but her temple faded away to blackness until even the sensation of touch was gone. Then, in a ripping explosion of power, she was dragged into the human world.

  Syn gasped for breath. Power and control banded around her in seemingly endless waves of energy. Whoever had summoned her for Contreau held far more magical energy than the last magician he’d hired. Before she could bring herself to open her eyes to the garish human light, her arms were caught and wrenched backward. Pain brought a hiss to her lips as her skin was bound by silver and iron, and her wings were pressed awkwardly beneath her.

  Under her, the soft kiss of satin contrasted with the pain.

  “Syn.”

  “Contreau.” She opened her eyes to stare at him. Some undoubtedly considered him a handsome man. They’d be drawn by his intensity, his charisma. They’d never know the power of his appeal was stolen from her, or others like her. “I’m surprised to see you so soon.”

  “I’m almost there. I just need that little bit more…” He trailed off and she wondered if the irony of his statement was as clear to him as it was to her. Idly Syn tested the bonds that bound her. They were secure, both magic and metal.

  “Why do we play this game every time I call you, Syn? You know I need this power. I can change things in this town, make them the way they should be.” Contreau shook his head and pulled a small velvet bag from his pocket. She’d come to hate that bag as much as she hated his condescending tone. “You’re a succubus, a simple sex demon. I know you don’t understand. But it’s for the greater good. Even the po
wer of hell can be used for good.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself? What do you tell the magicians, Contreau?” Syn’s heart beat madly as he pulled two crystal objects from the small pouch. Despite her determination a small moan escaped her as he held them out where she could see them. An engraved disc and a phallus, artifacts that must have once lain in a position of honor in her temple. They didn’t belong here any more than she did.

  “I don’t tell them anything.”

  Syn licked her lips as he studied his tools. He lifted the disc and light danced through the crystal’s facets to play rainbow patterns over her bound body. There was always a chance that the magician would hear and stop this now. “Of course not. Because then you kill them. Not exactly the act of a good man.”

  Contreau smiled. “There are always sacrifices, Syn.” He laid the disc against her lips. Involuntarily she kissed the relic, and shuddered when he shifted it to the skin above her heart. Already she could feel it pulling strength from her.

  “Open your legs for me, Syn. Splay them wide.”

  “Bastard.” But she had no choice. The magical bindings on her were powerful and the wording of her summoning had her obey no matter what Contreau requested. Slowly she spread her legs for him. Being naked meant nothing to her. Sex with a human was not a problem. She had enjoyed it many times in many forms, but this…? Contreau would not touch her himself. He would take her again and again with the crystal cock, its cold hard surface would drive her to the edge repeatedly, but never over. And with every near peak, her power would glow bright, only to be swallowed by the disc. By the time he was done she would be left, drained and unsatisfied, and he would have enough charisma to sway hundreds of weak souls to his will.