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Archive name: hallow04.txt (wife, succubi)
Authors name: Miles Naismith (mnaismith@hotmail.com)
Story title : Things That Go Hump in the Night
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Distribution Rights: May be distributed freely without
modification on Usenet, Usenet II, not-for-profit websites,
not-for-profit ftp sites, and news archival services which
offer free public access to archived articles. All other
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Things That Go Hump In The Night
Story Author: Miles Naismith
Copyright (c) 1999 mnaismith@hotmail.com
Comment Author: Lisala
Copyright (c) 1999 Lisala www.digitalmedievalist.com
***
Naismith's note:
I probably wouldn't have written this "piece of fluff"
(as Jane Urquhart described it) if Janey herself hadn't
commanded it for a web event she was coordinating - Janey
is my electronic Goddess, and I can but obey.
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. To
my amazement, she agreed. Pity that space prevented her
from verifying my theory that the old Scots prayer has
been reproduced with a typo for lo these many years.
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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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the
hands of children. They should be outside playing in the
sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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