Succubus Summoning 205

The cool liquid trickled through his body, rehydrating his tissues and restoring his energy. It flowed through him like a bracing waterfall.

And like a waterfall it eroded the substance of his spirit, dissolved it and washed it down to collect in his balls.

"Yes, I knew there was still some left inside you," Ûmūn Šag said.

Her hands roamed over and caressed his back while he suckled at her breast. The fleshy pot swelled and pulsed with slow, obscene throbs. A dense cloud of sweet perfume welled up around him. Phil inhaled and was lost. His fear melted away and the last remaining tension left his muscles.

"Relax, there's no escape now, meat," the plant girl said, her voice gentle. "Relax and enjoy the pleasure of these last moments."

Her soft hand glided up and down his spine. The thick liquid sloshed around inside the pot as it pulsed like the slow throbs of a heart. The warm currents tickled pleasantly around Phil's legs, rising up past his knees now as more fluid was exuded out of the fleshy walls. Another cloud of perfume welled up to surround him. The heady fragrance filled his nose. There was another odour beneath it, one the sickly sweet scent couldn't mask—unpleasant, like rotting meat. He continued to suckle at her breast, craving more of the sweet juice even as it hollowed him out from the inside.

"Oh yes, meat," Ûmūn Šag said.

She guided his erection back into the fleshy opening in the wall of her pot and moved him back and forth. Sticky nectar was welling up from within her. Every time Phil plunged inside, a thick syrup bubbled out with a squelching sound that was both disgusting and arousing in equal measure. An itch had started up in his cock and could only be assuaged by plunging it deep into her moist depths.

The entrance to her pot, lined with cushions of soft flesh, closed tightly around his waist. The pot was filled with warm fluid now. He felt currents flowing between his legs and tickling through the hairs on his scrotum as the pot swelled and ebbed. She squeezed the entrance closed tighter. Phil was pressed up against her moist inner wall, his cock buried in her soft flesh right up to the root. The sticky tunnel gripped his erection and gently sucked.

Phil's mouth left her teat. His head and arms fell back and he let out a groan as he came inside her.

"Yes, let it out inside me, let it all out."

Ûmūn Šag hugged him tight to her considerable chest. The ivy she had as hair cascaded over Phil's shoulders. The fleshy walls of her sex squeezed his gushing erection with gentle pulses. The fluids she'd loaned him, the ones that had dissolved the bedrock of his spirit before pooling in his balls, flowed from him, taking pieces of his soul with them.

"That's it. Let me flush it all out of you. You don't have to be tethered to this husk of flesh anymore."

Phil's buttocks quivered back and forth. He poured semen out of his throbbing penis. She drank it as easily as he'd drank the sweet juice from her swollen breast.

Phil heard the leathery flap of wings. Something landed on a branch behind and above them. A shadow fell over them.

Ûmūn Šag relaxed her embrace. Phil lolled weakly in her arms. He felt weird and woozy, all sloshy inside. His knees felt as wobbly as overdone pasta and his feet...they felt sort of diffused. He saw Verdé perched above them on one of the branches. Ûmūn Šag looked up at her and a moment passed between them. Surprise flickered in the plant girl's eyes. She nodded.

She looked down and gently ran a hand through Phil's hair. "I thought you were meat, but the Eréš Nūkric thinks you might be more."

Her vagina relaxed and released his cock. A last few spurts dribbled from him and the ejaculation came to a halt. He fell back and rested against her cushioned walls. The flexible green pot expanded and Phil felt himself being drawn down into it. The moist cushions of flesh brushed up his sides.

Oh no. Phil started to squirm and wriggle, to no avail. The last of the energy gifted to him by Verdé and Nurse Honey was spent. He had nothing left. The soft pads lining the inside of the pot, still exuding warm fluids, brushed up over his nipples. Her pitcher was completely filled with her juices. It was like sliding into a warm sticky bath.

"Maybe. We'll see," Ûmūn Šag said.

Her eyes closed and she gave a little moan as the elastic walls of her pitcher expanded and dragged the last of Phil inside her. He looked up and saw Ûmūn Šag smiling down at him in a circular view of the world that shrank and shrank until the pot closed shut above him.

Darkness.

Phil floated. Gentle currents ebbed and flowed around him. The world pulsed as if contained within a vast, slow-beating heart. This was his universe. His body was...he wasn't sure he even had a body anymore, just unravelling strands of consciousness suspended in a soup of warm liquid.

It was peaceful. None of the stress or pain of the world could reach him inside here.

Was this it? Were these his last thoughts as the giant pitcher plant digested him?

Maybe.

The thought wasn't his.

Maybe not.

He sensed the presence of Ûmūn Šag. His mind visualised her face, but it was more abstract, as though the strands of her being were growing through and tangling with his.

I can escape?

He would have to do it soon, before her juices digested him fully.

Why would you want to? Isn't it comfortable in here? Aren't you at peace? I will keep you safe from all the pain and suffering out there. You can know bliss within me forever.

That sounds an awful lot like death.

All things die. That is the cycle of life. Flesh, energy, thought, spirit; all come apart to be reassembled anew. It is nothing to fear.

Easy for you to say. You're not the one having their flesh reassembled into someone else's.

Your flesh is already mine.

Her thought chilled him. He knew it was true. He would have thrown up had he still a stomach to vomit with. He was gone. Just disembodied thoughts within a carnivorous plant. How long before they faded away.

So this is it?

Maybe.

Maybe?

I am Ûmūn Šag, verdant womb of the Dārû Qištu. Through me the cycle turns. That which reaches the end can be returned to the beginning. If that is what you truly desire.

Yes! Phil thought. I'm eighteen. There is so much for me to still experience. To achieve.

As you wish. I will return your flesh and resculpt your body.

The liquid pulses around him grew faster and stronger. A clay figure rose up and formed from the soup. Its features were rough, undifferentiated. Ûmūn Šag stood behind it. Her hands clutched the shoulders and her pale green face smiled out from next to a blank clay face. Phil looked on both as though he was a mirror.

You don't have to take the same form as before. I can sculpt your flesh anyway you desire.

Ûmūn Šag brought her hands up and began to work the rough clay of the figure's face.

I can make you handsome...

She ran her hands over the featureless face. Revealed beneath was a face that looked like a combination of the best features of Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling—a movie-star face to set millions of teenage hearts aflutter. A face to talk any woman into bed.

Or rugged...

The chin expanded. Bones thickened. Determined eyes stared out of a craggy face capable of staring down mountains. An intimidating face. One most people would know better than to antagonise.

Or why not something completely different. You don't need to return as a man...

Hair erupted from the top of the clay figure in long silky tresses. Features softened, shifted, became the elegant features of a fairytale princess. He/She was beautiful. A face for men to fall in love with.

The face stuck for only a brief moment before Ûmūn Šag's hands were active again.

Lips thickened into an insouciant pout. Cheekbones sharpened. Eyes smouldered. He/She radiated the sultry glamour of a sex siren. A face that filled men's dreams in the dark, sticky hours before dawn.

You can be anyone you desire.

Ûmūn Šag's hands were a blur over the formless clay. Reshaping. Reforming. The clay was in a constant state of flux. He/She watched in confusion, paralysed by an infinite array of choice. Thousands of faces, millions, flickered by, all of them he/she and none of them he/she. Ûmūn Šag's hands moved faster than the eye could follow. Ripples flowed across the clay figure like waves across a channel, shaping, sculpting the face as if it was fresh muck.

So many to choose. He/She couldn't pick. And now the head was starting to come apart, the clay becoming molten, liquid, unable to hold any form. The face was subsiding. Clumps were sloughing off in chunks. The figure was collapsing back into the soup.

No!

I'm Phil Rowling.

The dissolution stopped, began to flow in reverse. Ûmūn Šag took her hands away. They were no longer needed. The clay moved of its own accord. It flowed and accreted into clearly differentiated features. The face that stared back at Phil was the same one he saw every morning in the mirror. It wasn't a particularly notable face, but it was his. He owned it and no one else did.

The face was gone. Phil realised he was staring out of its eyes.

He heard Ûmūn Šag giggle. A hole opened up in the darkness and verdant-tinged sunlight shone in Phil's eyes. The fleshy walls squeezed around him and he was propelled up and out, ejected from a womb of flesh and still covered in glistening strands of sticky juices. His world flipped as he was spat out into the bright sunlight and earthy humidity of the forest. He tumbled down through the branches, part falling and part sliding, until he crashed into some supple green branches and was bounced out into open space.

A shadow fell across him. Verdé plucked him out of the air. She wrapped her arms around him and rained hot kisses down on his lips, brow, cheeks and neck. They glided to the floor and came to rest in a soft mossy hollow. Verdé wrapped her wings around him and continued to kiss him with wild abandon. She hugged him tightly and rubbed her cheek against his.

"Euw!" she said, rubbing a hand over his naked chest and coming away covered in thick mucus. "You're all icky. Let's take you back to the castle and get you cleaned up."

to be continued...