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And we have a winner, Lona Stringer! Once I hear who won the big prizes I’ll update with them.
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This is a short vignette written from the perspective of the hero of The Altar of Deimos, a nameless Incubus. I hope you enjoy it!
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A Day in the Life of an Incubus
He woke, his jaw and mouth sore. Were it not for his inhuman strength, he would have suffocated in that woman’s pussy last night. Some of them seemed to think, because he wasn’t human, he didn’t need to breath.
The sun shone straight down, and around him, his brethren rose, each one of them, an ideal of masculine beauty. They came from all over the world, every skin color, hair color, eye color, hulking muscular men and lithe feminine men.
He was of medium build, medium height, medium skin color. His only remarkable features were his curly black hair and prominent Aquiline nose. Still, while the popularity of other Incubi waxed and waned, he was a perennial favorite. Every night, he would steal into the rooms of three or four women, and take them.
He got in line with everyone outside, waiting to douse their sleepy heads in a shock of well water. The man behind you worked the pump while you washed. By tradition, the last one in line had the awkward task of pumping and bathing.
The Incubus in front of him took his time, getting his entire upper body wet, then it was his turn. He only liked to splash his face and rinse out his mouth. Two surges of water and he was ready for the towel the sexless angel held out to him. They were so perfectly beautiful, perfectly serene, they never turned anyone on.
Truth be told, they creeped the Incubi out. If one glided into the room with food or a missive, the Incubi fell silent. After the angel was gone, they continued their conversation about tits and twats. He had a good story to share this morning.
Their table was set with cold water, fresh fruit, and gruel—an ascetic’s diet. Sometimes they had fish. They whispered the angels feared that if they gave the Incubi anything heartier, their sexual appetites would rage out of control.
He sat where he always sat. A tall thin black Incubi was talking about his night.
“She kept curling her hips up, popping me out, and finally I figured out what she wanted,” he said. “I stuck my cock right outside her ass, and lubed it up real good with my precum. Then I started working myself into her slowly, and she groaned. I love it when petite women take in the ass like champions. She never flinched, just kept coming and coming. When I finally shot my load into her, she felt it, and almost took my dick off with one last orgasm.”
There were whistles and applause. The black one turned to him and asked, “So, what about your night?”
“Oh me? Nothing exciting, except I was almost suffocated again.”
They all laughed. The one that looked like him, only with blond hair, said, “What is it about you that makes women want to strangle you with their thighs?”
“I don’t know, but I bruised her pulling her off me,” the Incubus said. “No mortal man could have escaped her deadly embrace. She soaked my chest in her cum. I had to bathe myself before I went to sleep.” He kept talking about her, bragging about how hard he made her orgasm. As much as he may smile, he wasn’t happy, he knew that. There had to be something more to life than orgasms.
After breakfast, they had a few free hours, to play cards, to bathe. They were given all manners of modern media so they would not seem foreign to the women they bedded. Most of them picked at the magazines or idly flipped through channels. The angels heavily censored what they were given. Some Incubi crept off to be with one another. He had tried that a few times, but it wasn’t really for him.
Every evening, the Incubi formed a line by the great window that overlooked the valley. He liked to be in the front, to receive his piece of honey cake and his list of assignments. It was his favorite part of the day, when anything could happen. He could be going to Alaska, or Zimbabwe, or…Hollywood. He was on housewife duty.
He sighed. Something about rich women often left a sour taste in his mouth. The first name on the list was Wanda.
He always memorized the women’s names. Sometimes, when he felt more like a thing than a being, he would say it, that magical word, and the woman would look at him.
“Wanda,” he said, eating his sweet cake, then licking his fingers clean. “I hope you’re sweet, Wanda.”
He liked to start his nights with a good attitude. While some of the women were spoiled, treating him like another indulgence, there were those among them who truly needed his touch.
He spread himself into the air, and an angel said, “Pray well Incubus.”
The black mist shivered in the moonlight.
I hope you liked it! The Altar of Deimos is available for purchase on Amazon.
Description:
Wanda is devastated after her nasty divorce. With an evening to herself, she decides to take a hot bath and put on some sexy lingerie, just for her. Little does she know that lurking in the shadows is an immortal creature, come to kneel before her, and soothe her aches with his flicking tongue and hard cock.
The Incubus understands his purpose, to give pleasure to women, but still, he has questions. Who am I? is one that will not go away. He knows what to do, but has nothing to call himself, nothing to distinguish him from brethren besides his features. He is the mist that creeps in the window or under the door, and takes women in the night.
Also, I’m getting married the 28th, so…if I don’t get back to you right away, you know why! A winner will be chosen the day after the hop is over. Thanks for taking a peek, and don’t forget to check out more awesome blogs!
Antoinette M-- 