Succubus

I clambered onto the table and settled myself on my knees between his parted thighs. His cock seemed the only part of him that was alive. It twitched with need. A clear drop of liquid had formed at its tip and as I watched, it slid down the length of his shaft leaving a silvery trail which ended in the folds of skin that sheathed his balls. I curled my fingers around his member and squeezed softly. Another drop of liquid bubbled up from the tip. I leaned forward and flicked it with my tongue. It exploded in a tiny spray of wetness.

I dipped lower and enveloped the head of his penis in the heat of my mouth. I sucked softly like a baby would at his mother's breast and he groaned. I kept going until the last trace of pre cum was gone and he was now wet with my spit. And then I dove even lower, sliding his hardness into my throat until my lips nuzzled the wiry curls of his pubes. He whimpered as the muscles of my throat began to tighten and release, softly milking him.

And then I allowed my tongue to lengthen and to dart like a snake around his throbbing length, caressing him, drowning him in soft wetness. He gurgled softly as my tongue began to play, his fingers now wrapped in my hair. But I wasn't done.

My right hand crept beneath his body into the crevasse between his cheeks. My fingers parted him and then one fingertip probed gently. The ring of muscle guarding his entrance tightened until my lips wrapped tightly around the root of his cock and squeezed. His body relaxed then and he let me in. I slid smoothly into his soft depths. He was tight and warm and he clutched at my finger desperately, as though terrified what it might do. He found out soon enough.

The soft pad of my forefinger found the spongy knot on his upper wall and began to rub ... gently at first and then more firmly. He went crazy. His body began to thrash and it was all I could do to hold him down. His fingers were scrabbling helplessly on the felt surface of the table and I found myself regretting momentarily my choice of location for our heated coupling. That felt was going to need changing.

I could feel his balls tighten with the onset of his release, but my thumb found the soft indentation of his perineum and quickly choked it off. With my other hand, I gently hefted his balls and began to roll them softly in my palm. Soft unintelligible noises dribbled from his lips ... soft pleading noises. He seemed to have been abandoned by sanity. His world was now my mouth and my hands and what they could do to him. That was enough.

I knew he was ready. But I made him wait, drawing out the moment, cherishing the beauty of that body trapped in a hunger larger than itself. He lived an eternity in the hour that he wallowed in my mouth. And then I finally let him go. His body was jerking of its own accord, his hips thrusting his cock into the coolness of the night air. I knelt above him, allowing the tip of his length to brush against my lips with each uneven thrust. And then I let him sink into my wetness as I bore down on him.

I remained immobile, his cock floundering in my juices. He was twitching inside me, his hard length pulsing against the walls of my cunt. It was time. My hips began to rise and fall, with a rhythm as old as man himself. Its language was unmistakable. It was the language of desire, of need, of urgency. It was a language that he understood. His fingers grabbed my waist as he thrust himself upwards, seeking oblivion and ... absolution. I obliged. I drew the hot cum boiling in his balls up the trembling length of his shaft, out of his cock and into my womb. And his soul came with it.

In those final moments, as he began to dissolve into nothingness, he regained some measure of clarity. His eyes, now focused, were dilated with fear. My heart went out to him, to the implacable nature of his solitude on that journey that he would have to make alone. He whimpered softly as his world darkened.

"Shhh..." I whispered, "It will be alright."

I took his face in my hands and kissed him tenderly. His lips were already growing cold. And then he was gone.

The world was awash in moonlight. I raised my arms skywards and closed my eyes as the life that I had just claimed washed through my body like honey that had been warmed in the morning sun. I felt wonderful.

It was a cloudless night and the sky glittered with a million stars. As I breathed the world in, I was mildly surprised by the image that leapt, unbidden, to my mind. I had stopped at the butcher's at Lumley to pick up a leg of lamb. The butcher was a particularly sorry piece of work. He looked like a mild mannered accountant and wore a perpetually puzzled expression as though surprised to find himself wielding a knife.

But his son Edward was a different matter. He was a genial giant with an open guileless expression, completely at odds with the fact that his arms were usually soaked up to his elbows in blood. I think it was that combination of innocence and brutality that made me moist. I had this mad urge to lay him out on the table at which he stood, stained by the dying breath of creatures beyond count, and to draw him slowly, inexorably into my warmth. Living flesh to cold cut.

I smiled to myself. Perhaps, I would order some fresh meat for lunch.

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