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From: "Miles Naismith" <mnaismith@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} {GALAGO} Things that Go Hump in the Night (Naismith/Lisala) MF 
Date: Wed, 10 Nov 1999 15:10:01 -0500
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<1st attachment, "ttghitn.txt" begin>
CONTENT WARNING: This story contains depictions of 
sexual acts.  If it is either illegal or inappropriate for  you
to be reading this, please stop now.  Or at least  before you
come to the good parts.     

Story Author: Miles Naismith  
Copyright ( c )  1999 mnaismith@hotmail.com      
Comment Author: Lisala
Copyright ( c ) 1999 Lisala   www.digitalmedievalist.com


Distribution Rights: May be distributed freely  without
modification on Usenet, Usenet II,  not-for-profit web
sites, not-for-profit ftp sites,  and news archival services
which offer free public  access to archived articles.  All
other rights  reserved.     

Naismith's note: 

     I applaud the efforts of Rey Del Sexo and his 
intrepid ASSTR crew in reviving ASSM.  Besides the
demands of RL, one reason I haven't been inspired to write
is the hassle of posting to ASS, followed by getting lost in
the spam.  This will be a positive step in regaining the
numbers of quality stories, and the ability to find them,
that we enjoyed until Eli the Bearded had to lay down his 
gavel.  

     Grateful as I am to the ASSTR crew, though, I've 
been so far out of the sex story frame of mind lately that I  
probably wouldn't have written even this "piece of fluff"
(as Jane Urquhart described it) if Janey herself hadn't
commanded it for this Gala -  Janey is my electronic
Goddess, and I can but obey.  My hat's off to her for
organizing this.  

     Given that it is a piece of fluff, however, I decided
I'd try to add some credibility by association, so I invited
the Net's resident Digital Medievalist, Lisala, to add a
scholarly note on the topic after the story, verifying my
theory that the old Scots prayer has been reproduced with a
typo for lo these many years.  To my amazement, she
agreed.   So, here it is, now transformed into weighty and
important fluff:


          Things That Go Hump In The Night

               by Miles Naismith           

..............................................................
>From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggedy beasties,
And things that go bump in the night,
Oh Lord, deliver us.  - Ancient Scots prayer
..............................................................

     "All right, I'll do it," she had finally said, "but don't 
blame me if I break out in giggles." 

     He had been so tentative, yet so hopeful, like a 
puppy begging for food.  She had been amused at his 
request, and had decided to give in long  before she told
him  she would do it, just to watch the expressions on his
face.   Still, he was her love, and even though it was
stupid, a silly man thing, she had decided that she could
force herself to play her part.  Besides, the pitch darkness
he had specified would hide her blushes.

     That was how she had come to be here, naked
under the covers, the echoes of timid little extortionists'
cries of "Trick or Treat" having long since died, waiting
for her  husband to dress up like a burglar and come
"ravish" her --  his adolescent Halloween rape fantasy. 
Idly, she yawned, wondering where he could be.  It was
already late, and she was tired.  When she could wait no
longer, she slept.

            Her dreams belied her disparagement of his
fantasy.   She dreamed of being "ravished" by a gentle,
handsome stranger.  She half-heartedly tried to protest, to
push him away, but he gently pinned her hands, and
caressed her.  Her body slowly began to give in to passion. 
Her breathing  quickened;  she panted.  Inexorably, but
gently, he pried her legs apart.  The pressure of his weight
on her pushed her into the mattress.  It felt so real.

            Suddenly she was convinced that it *was* real.  She
willed herself to awaken, to throw off the veil of sleep, to
struggle in truth against him.  But she couldn't shake the 
thickness of her senses, the lazy blur of enervation, and
she was not sure that she wanted to, in any event.  

     She felt her hips buck as he pushed his erection
against the entrance to her body.  It felt hot, literally hot. 
And so did he.  All over.  Though it was completely dark,
she saw him in her mind's eye: inhumanly handsome,
built like a Greek god, the epitome of sex, his naked body
tightly encased in smooth, dark crimson hide, and
somehow she felt she was right.         

     Spurred by some sense of duty to her husband, she 
moved her hands over his body, grabbing and pushing, 
trying randomly to move away. "But this is my husband, I 
should let him have his way," she thought, confused and 
unconvinced.           

     He felt like hot, smooth leather everywhere she 
touched.  The head of his penis felt so warm that she 
imagined that it might be glowing against her vagina.  As
it probed for her opening, she turned her head to him, to
his face, and felt more hot leather.  Then her hands were
swept together and held above her head again.  His other
hand continued its caresses.         

     "John?  Is that you, John?"         

     "You sure were unlucky to run into me tonight, 
poor lady," came the breathy whisper.        

      The incongruity of the answer, like the puerile
dialogue of an Ed Wood movie, reassured her.  It had to be
John and his fantasy.         

     Suppressing a giggle, she also tried to suppress an 
image of Dan Ackroyd in the fetish store, in the full
leather  BDSM suit complete with face covering hood,
from that stupid movie, Exit to Eden, that John liked.  But
hands continued to caress her breasts, and the hot poker
below  found its target.         

     Still not quite awake, as if in a waking dream, she 
felt herself penetrated.  "God, he feels big tonight!" she
thought.  The passion that had arisen before suddenly
arose  again, and even his idiotic, whispered chant  -- 
"You sure were unlucky to meet up with me tonight.  I'm
going to fuck your cunt and come deep in your pussy, poor
lady!" --  hadn't  destroyed her mood.         

     He had driven all the way in by then, seeming
bigger and longer than she remembered.  Then out, and in
again.   And again.  And again.  With each stroke her
excitement increased.  Then she found herself hovering
above, looking down at herself, like those stories of
people who had died and had seen themselves on the
operating table.  She saw her spread legs, her knees forced
outward with each thrust.   She saw her breasts bounce as
each clenching of his butt drove him home again.  She
saw her face, distorted with  lust, as she desperately sought
release.  Then she found herself back inside her body,
panting with her need, until she finally convulsed under
him, trying to squeeze the invading member inside her
with her vaginal muscles, rigid with temporary paralysis,
shuddering in the downslide of the most intense orgasm
she had ever felt.         

     But he was not through.  Pausing until she relaxed, 
he then resumed his stroking, having lost none of his
stiffness.  Again he pumped her up, like successive breaths 
into a child's balloon, until the balloon burst, and she
dissolved in orgasm.  And as she came down, she felt him
come -- literally felt him come.  Each spurt was 
noticeably warm, almost hot, inside her.  She had never
felt anything like it.  The sensation made her come again.   
     

     Then he was gone.  Completely.         

     "John?  John, come back, John," she called.  But
no answer came, and the blurry, dreamy state deepened
into involuntary sleep.        

      The next morning, she awakened to a pounding at
her door.  She looked to her right, becoming concerned 
when she saw John's side of the bed vacant . . . the moreso
when she looked through the peephole and saw him
outside.         

     "Don't even ask," he said.  "Did you take the phone
off the hook?  I've been trying to call all night."         

     "No, I didn't touch it.  But where have you been?"   
     

     He looked down, face red.  "I went to the car to 
change into this costume and locked my keys inside.  My 
wallet too.  I was trying to get in the car door when the
cops showed up and arrested me.  I got that straight, but I
need your keys to get in my car now."         

     Suddenly she realized that he was dressed all in 
black.  Black jeans, black sweat shirt, black stocking cap.  
But not a bit of leather anywhere.           

     "Thank Heaven," she whispered to herself, "it must
have been just a dream after all."    

Meanwhile, elsewhere . . . . . . . . .          

     Damn, I screwed up again.  I can accept that she 
wasn't a virgin --  they never are anymore.  But
comprising the virtue of a faithful wife scores almost as
many  points.  And Heavens, she practically invited me
into her dream, and she knew deep down it wasn't her
husband she was fucking.  And I was so careful:  the
crucifix on the wall, the first communion banner in the
child's room, the CCD notice under the refrigerator 
magnet . . . she had to be Catholic!   What the Heaven was
she doing on birth control pills?   Doesn't she read her
own dogma?  I know I should have checked, but she was
Catholic!  A load of stolen sperm  wasted.  Too bad I can't
produce my own sperm and go find  a substitute to knock
up before reporting in. Beelzebub is gonna be pissed, but
what's a poor incubus to do in these decadent days?  And
besides, it's not like the succubi will  have any problem
collecting more sperm in this culture.  I sure hope that
Dan Ackroyd thought doesn't get out though,  or I'll never
live it down.  Oh well, she was tight, and she squealed like
a pig when she came.   Sometimes there are
compensations that can even make up for the demonic 
fury of Ol' Bubby.  Consoled, he floated down into the  Pit.


LISALA COMMENTS:

Miles started with a quote, so I will too.

Seven Peters, seven times
Send Mary by her son
Send Bridget by her mantle
Between us and the faery host
Between us and the demons of the air.

     There, that ought to protect us from incubi, though
I'm not quite sure what to make of all those peters. 

     In the simplest terms, an incubus (plural incubi) is
a demonic spirit believed to descend upon and have sexual
intercourse with women as they sleep. The word incubus
entered into Middle English, from Late Latin, from Latin
incuba, from incubere, "to lie down on" (American
Heritage Dictionary, third ed.). Not surprisingly, incubus is
cognate with incubate. 

     The female demonic counterpart to the incubus, the
succubus (plural succubuses or succubi) has sex with a
man while he sleeps, thus providing a convenient
explanation for nocturnal emissions. Succubus entered
Middle English from Medieval Latin, as an alteration
(influenced by Late Latin incubus) of Latin succuba,
"paramour," from succubere, to lie under (sub- + cubere,
to lie down). 

     Sex isn't the primary interest of the succubi and
incubi. They are in the semen import/export business. The
succubus collects semen, and the incubus disseminates it.
Popular assumptions aside, strictly speaking, the succubus
doesn't have to suck, but it certainly would seem to be a
practical methodology, however etymologically incorrect.


     Miles Naismith is neither the first nor the last
author fascinated by the incubus. Incubi have a long
literary history. We are told by Geoffrey of Monmouth that
Merlin was conceived by an incubus. According to
Merlin's mother (unlike our unnamed heroine, both a
virgin and a nun) "some one used to come to me in the
form of a most handsome young man. He would often
hold me tightly in his arms and kiss me. When he had been
some little time with me he would disappear, so that I
could no longer see him. . . . when he came to see me in
that way [invisible] he would often make love with me as
a man would do, and in that way he made me pregnant."
(Geoffrey of Monmouth History of the Kings of Britain,
Part IV "The House of Constantine." Trans. Lewis Thorpe.
Penguin Books.(176-68).

     Successive monastic redactors elaborated on that
passage, intensifying the eroticism of the imagery; one can
imagine what ASS's finest would concoct today. The
young virgin, her habit tossed aside, the coarse linen shift
raised to reveal her hips, her palms flat on the narrow cot
she was bent over, her round white buttocks trembling as
her hips buck and thrust towards the invisible erect . . . but
I digress.

     Nor is Merlin the only person of note to have an
incubus in his family tree; the English king William Rufus
is said by one chronicler to have been "endgenerit and
gottin be ane ewill spreit apon his moder and was callit
Incobus" (Asloan mss.) 

     In fact, according to Caesarius of Heisterback, the
entire race of the Huns is descended from the union of
incubi with women cast out by the Goths; this would
certainly explain much of the behavior of Attila. 

     In his Historia Anglicana, Thomas of Walsingham
tells of Joan, who in the diocese of Winchester in 1337
met an incubus in the woods she took for her lover
William. They screwed liked weasels. When Joan returned
home she discovered, upon converse with William, what
had happened. Her home then spontaneously filled with a
horrid stench and she was stricken ill. After three days she
died, and her blackened body was buried, so grotesquely
swollen that it took eight men to carry it.

     Clearly our unnamed incubus knows his business.
He has the perfect night -- Halloween, the Celtic new year,
Samain, when the veil between this world and the
otherworld is thin and easily crossed. He carefully selects
his target. He goes about his job in a workmanlike fashion,
delivers the goods, and then he too vanishes, without a
stench or a permanently swollen body to mark his passing.
True, he isn't successful at impregnating his victim, but
how much should one expect  from an antique airy spirit in
a sophisticated pharmaceutical age like ours?


Lisala                   | www.digitalmedievalist.com
My opinions are my own.  | Who else would want them?

Lisala can be reached at lisala@aol.com


Naismith enjoys comments: mnaismith@hotmail.com
ASSTR also graciously hosts my other stories:
http://www.asstr.org/~mnaismith/




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