Succubi

I’m a peow, he thought.

The moon shone down. Its light pinkened the dense forest.

Doefolmon, he thought.

Wiffek.

Fulluht Loc.

In the moon’s bleary light, he saw it all again. He saw them. Bathing in glee, in blood. He saw their mad feasts, their supple bodies, and their longing eyes and lust which stripped him of his soul.

They weren’t people. They were monsters.

How many graves did I dig for them?

He’d watched their mad rituals many times. They’d held the husls down on the slab, slicing them open like fish and reeling out their entrails, oblivious to the mad, lurching screams. Erik knew that he would hear those screams forever. The more privileged wreccans tended to far worse matters, things which beggared description…

Dohtor, he thought.

Dother.

Dother fo Dother.

He’d seen it once, in the night mirror. That had been many years ago. They’d held his head by his hair and made him look, had pried his eyelids open with their fingers. It had been like being drowned in blood.

Afterward, they’d nearly fucked him to death.

«« — »»

Martin dreamed of Maedeen.

Even within the dream, he knew it was a dream. Because he would never do such things for real. Never.

He loved Ann more than he’d ever loved anyone in his life. Cheating on her would be like cutting her. It was unthinkable.

So what did the dream mean?

He was walking around in the darkness, in the woods. Tinder crunched—the moon’s pink light led him through a labyrinth of trees.

He’d been assigned a task. A cramped clearing formed, bright in moonlight. At his feet lay a pile of bags. They were regular plastic garbage bags, Hefty kitchen size. They’d been tied up and neatly stacked. Martin didn’t know what was in them, and he didn’t care. He only knew he was supposed to do something with them.

He was supposed to bury them.

It hadn’t taken long to dig the hole. Next, he was placing the bags, one at a time, into the hole. Though small, they felt heavy, weighted. He calmly filled the hole with the little bags, then covered them with earth. Plap, plap, plap! came the sound as the dirt landed on the plastic.

When he was done, he leaned against a tree and flinched. There was something wet and slick on the tree trunk. In the moonlight, his palm looked black.

Faint giggling bubbled out of the dark.

Martin wended back into the woods. The giggling sounded a lot like girls, children perhaps. The moonlight was bright and pink.

He stopped, tried to focus.

A slender, naked girl was leaning over. Martin stared fixedly. He looked at her long, slender legs, the sparse cleft of fur where they joined. The fur protruded as she leaned over further, and he could see the bottoms of her beasts jiggling slightly as her arm moved in some arcane task. This sudden sight—this beautiful nude girl pristine in moonlight, her buttocks jutting—aroused Martin at once. But when she turned, he gasped.

It was Melanie.

“Hi, Martin,” she said. She was grinning.

Embarrassment flooded him. Her nakedness faced him without inhibition. This was a seventeen year old—his lover’s daughter. Yet she seemed to sense his unease, she seemed to delight in it.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she queried.

“No,” Martin said, but the reply was roughened, dry.

“Don’t lie to me, you pig. When I was leaning over a minute ago, you wanted to take your cock out, didn’t you? You wanted to walk right up behind me and put it in me. Didn’t you?”

“No,” Martin croaked.

She grinned back at him. She looked just like Ann, the same breasts and nipples, the same legs—just younger. In one hand she held a pail, but it looked old, rusty. It looked like a relic. In her other hand she held a crude brush, like a paintbrush.

That’s what she’d been doing. She’d been painting something on the trees.

Then two more girls emerged from the darkness. They, too, were naked. Their matching grins seemed obscene, their bodies tinted pink. They each held a brush and a pail too.

What was this? Why were they painting trees?

One girl seemed younger, slimmer; she scarcely had any pubic hair at all. The third girl’s bosom jutted. She was more developed, more curvy and plush.

“Get that shit off,” said the youngest.

“What?”

“Your clothes, shithead,” said the third.

“The wifford wants you ready,” Melanie added.

“The what?” Martin asked.

“Just shut up and get your clothes off.”

Strangest of all, Martin obeyed these commands. The pink moon beat down on him, glare in his eyes. Next thing he knew he lay sprawled on the thatchy forest ground. The girls converged. Their hands ran all over him. His erection throbbed as if to burst, pulsing with his heart. All Martin could do was lie back and cringe.

No, no, he thought. This was perverse. These girls were teenagers, he was a thirty eight year old man. And Melanie, for God’s sake…

It’s got to be. It’s got to be a—

“That’s right, asshole,” Melanie said. “It’s a dream.”

But that knowledge did not legitimize the wrongness of this. Lust felt stuffed into his head; his entire body throbbed with it. Without preamble, Melanie straddled his face. “Eat it, peow,” she said. “Stick your tongue in it.” Martin tried, but couldn’t. She was keeping it too far away. She laughed, touching herself. Her thighs clenched against his head.

And the other two girls… What were they doing? Martin couldn’t see, but he felt rough, swirling sensations. They giggled with their work. As Melanie brought herself to orgasm, little daubs touched his penis, his testicles— though the contact was insubstantial, Martin thought he might explode.

“We’re initiating you, peow,” one of them said, giggling.

“We’re making you ours,” said the other.

He realized then what they were doing.

They were painting him. They were painting him with whatever they’d been painting on the trees.

This was crazy. They were just girls. Martin easily had the strength to overpower them, but even the thought of that weighed him down more. He felt as though roots had emerged, had lashed him to the pulpy ground.

“Poor little lamb must be thirsty.”

“Give him a drink, Melanie.”

The three girls shrieked laughter—a mad, clicking, witch-like sound. Then Melanie began to urinate into his face.

The hot stream inundated him. He gagged, eyes squeezed shut as their laughter rose. Is she going to piss forever? he thought.