("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: hallow04.txt (wife, succubi) Authors name: Miles Naismith (mnaismith@hotmail.com) Story title : Things That Go Hump in the Night ----------------------------------------------------------- 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 rights reserved. ----------------------------------------------------------- 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: /~mnaismith/ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 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. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 16