I, Succubus Pt. 01

*This is intended to be the first in a series. My thanks to the lovely SimplySilver for her inspiration and assistance. Please feel free to let me know what you think. Thank you.*

My name is Vanya. This is a part of my story, but it is not the end of my story.

I am a succubus, but I was not born so. I was born human, and became a warrior, and then a bandit, and then a warlord. My band thrived in the desert, raiding and pillaging and fighting, sometimes at the behest of those who paid us, sometimes against those who wronged us, and sometimes against all comers. We were strong and they were weak and the strong take what they wish and the weak submit, for that is the way of things.

We were known. We were feared. We were admired. We were sought after. We looted and fought and won, again and again, for we were the strongest and we were the fiercest and we were the best and we knew it and loved it.

And then we were challenged. It had happened before, and we'd emerged triumphant time and time again, but this was different. This challenger was a man, alone. One man against an army, and yet he challenged us. We roared with laughter at his presumption, and then we commenced the slaughter, but it was we who were slaughtered.

The man was a sorceror, skilled and strong in his craft, and he summoned up legions of beasts and demons and horrors, and as many as we slew he brought forth more. Time and again they rose, time and again we fought, time and again we won but with each victory we lost men, some to wounds and some to death and some to panic and retreat, until we had dwindled to five. Five where we had been an army, five against numberless hordes, but we five stood and would not submit for though we were not the strongest that day we were determined to fight to the last, and we would have if we'd had the chance.

Instead we were captured. Foul magics erupted from the ground and ensnared us and we were held bound and helpless before him. Our struggles were to no avail, even the smallest of us could not slip free, even the strongest of us could not tear loose, and as we struggled he approached. Our adversary. Our conqueror. Our challenger.

He was a man and to look at him you'd think him nothing more than that, but his eyes glowed with magic and his spells and creatures had overrun my band, a band I thought invincible, a band that had challenged nobles and vexed kings. Armies had battered themselves to death against us and yet one man had prevailed.

I learned much about strength that day.

He regarded us for a moment, looking into our eyes with his sight beyond sight, and in the end he decided he liked what he saw in three of us, myself included. The other two, brave soldiers both, were thrown to his creatures and their fates were the fates of the weak. I honor their memory but they were conquered, and the conquered are the property of the conqueror.

The rest of us he brought to his lair and there he worked his will upon us and transformed us. Johann, who was a great brute of a man, became possessed by a rage demon and made mighty enough to shatter mountains, but his plans for Kristena and I were different. No possession for us, instead he used long-forgotten and longer-forbidden magics to alter our minds and bodies, to change our very nature and spirit, to implant seeds into our minds and when those seeds sprouted and took root, guided by his magics, we emerged as succubi.

He intended to keep us. To use us. To hold us in his thrall. And he did, for a time.

Under his command Kristena and I learned. We became sexual warriors, strong and fierce and proud, and our lust and our hunger fueled his ambition and served his plans.

Until it didn't.

I won't speak more of him now. Perhaps, in the future, I shall. Let it suffice to say that we left his service under terms...disagreeable to him and though he survived he did not do so unscarred. Perhaps he plots his revenge. Perhaps he shall try to carry it out. I welcome the challenge when it comes.

From there I drifted, learning more, conquering, gaining in strength, challenging and being challenged and winning. Testing my strength against others and proving myself, both in the demon realms and on other worlds, and on one of those other worlds I found Him. My adversary. The incubus. My master-to-be.

It's a very rare thing when a succubus catches sight and scent of a worthy challenger and he catches sight and scent of her. There's a mutual recognition that runs as deep as the ocean-sea and wide as the desert. Before you feel it you have your plans and thoughts and designs. After you feel it your plans and thoughts and designs stop mattering and you are in a battle for your life and mind and soul. It may be a battle that lasts for mere moments, or for entire human lifetimes. It may resolve quickly or slowly, but one way or another it becomes a part of you, and so it was with me.

I challenged another to combat over something trivial, the excuse didn't matter, the point was the battle. I wished to conquer him and I did, drained him of life and soul and took his strength for my own, and I did so publicly. I did it as an advertisement and challenge and because I enjoy displaying my strength, and others watched as we knew they would. Watched as we fought. Watched as I conquered. Watched as I feasted. I took my time and relished in it, relished in the gazes of those watching, knowing full well that I might tempt some of them to challenge me in turn.

But one set of eyes fixed on me in particular, one set seemed to drill through me.

I sensed him before I saw him, caught up in the moment as I was, and it was with some difficulty that I wrenched my gaze from my victim to my adversary, to my Master.

The challenge was in a stone amphitheater, with rising seats up the sides so a crowd could watch duels, sexual and nonsexual alike. There were wards up to keep away the mundane, the peasants and goatherds and the like, but if you know what to look for it stands out like a beacon, and it drew crowds and He was among them.

I was riding my opponent to his doom, and his doom was close, but he and the crowd were both expecting it to take longer because I enjoyed prolonging it. I'd planned to prolong it further, but that was before I locked eyes with Him. When I did so all matters concerning my unfortunate challenger left my mind. I held my gaze on Him and dropped my hips hard and abandoned all patience and pretense of waiting. My victim screamed out his doom as I tore his soul free from his body and swallowed it whole, and in his scream was a challenge and a promise, and He knew it.

I was proud. Haughty. I thought I was invincible. And in my pride, I let myself grow overconfident and I roared out my challenge there and then.

It was foolish. It was reckless. Worst, it was weak. And he took full advantage of it.

My previous opponent lay forgotten on the sands, reduced to a husk, and with a gesture I summoned fire and reduced him to ash. I meant the gesture to be a display of power, and it was, but it drained me at a moment when I was already drained. In time my power would have been restored and enhanced by my victim, but not then, not that fast, and I took my lightly-taxed reserves and diminished them.

Prideful. Arrogant. Foolish. Weak.

He stepped down onto the sands, accepting my challenge, and we regarded each other for a moment. I could feel the strength radiating off him, the masculinity, the power, and I wondered what he would taste like as I drained his life and essence and soul. I was anticipating my victory before the battle, something I'd always cautioned my underlings against when I was human, a warning I'd cast aside since my escape from the sorceror, a warning I should have paid more heed to.

He looked at me in turn, but his countenance gave no sign of his thoughts. He was naked, as was I, the custom in that arena. An imp flew up from the announcer's table, ready to announce the challenge, but I stifled it with a gesture, not wanting anything to interfere. I wanted to call down my own challenge, be the harbinger of my own victory.

The crowd watched, interested now as they had not been before. This was something new, something powerful, something unexpected. The clashes of succubi and incubi are things of legend, rare events few are privileged to witness, and the thought of seeing such a contest piqued their interest. Some were human and some were alien and some were demonic and some were something else entirely but all watched as we stared each other down.

I spoke first, and that was a mistake. I should have waited, should have taken all the time I was given to refresh and renew and let my energy return, but I wanted to appear strong. The appearance of strength is not the same as strength. That lesson I re-learned that day.

"Hello, prey," I said, turning to one side to walk in a slow circle, and he matched my motion, turning to the other side so we stalked each other around the arena. "Care to die beneath me?"

"Hello, slave," he said, returning the gibe, "care to kneel before your new master?"

I reached out towards my possessions and called my sword to my hand with a gesture, the blade long and curved and wickedly sharp, and I made a show of whipping it back and forth, letting the edge sing in the still air of the arena.

He gestured in answer and a long metallic glove appeared on one of his arms, the guard extending down to his elbow, a defensive weapon that I took as a gesture of weakness.

I was wrong.

I stopped my pacing, turned to face him, my legs spread apart, my heart racing, my mind afire with lust and need and determination, and that feeling is blissful. The feeling of seeing the most delicious prey you've ever faced standing across from you, about to be yours.

He stopped in turn, faced me, rolled his shoulders, let his arms clench and unclench, his fists as massive as my thighs, but I'd faced large opponents before and his size didn't intimidate me. In fact, it aroused me all the more. Conquering something larger than you, something that looks stronger, something that looks invincible...well. That's the sort of thing that makes an impression. That's the sort of thing that causes talk. That's the sort of thing that gets me really fucking wet.

The imp flew up again and this time I let it rise, let it call out its announcement, a formality warning all to stay out of the arena on pain of forfeiture of life and limb, and then the imp flew down to his perch and rested.

"Name your stakes," the creature screeched.

"His life and soul," I said, raising my sword, letting the curved tip point towards Him.

"Her submission and servitude," He said, raising his mailed fist and pointing a finger straight at my heart.

"Accepted," I said.

"Accepted," he repeated.

And then our battle began.

Most succubi don't fight with swords. Nor do I always, but I was raised to the blade and carried it over from my human life. A human lifetime's training married to a succubus' strength and speed and practice against all manner of creatures have made me more deadly than I could ever have dreamed. And if, upon occasion, I get a little...overenthusiastic and my foe bleeds out before I can claim him properly, well, it's a small price to pay.

Because most of my opponents are prepared for a succubus' charms but few are prepared for that and the blade but He...He was prepared for both. He was prepared for anything.

I leapt forwards, eager for the contest to conclude, seeking a quick victory, and that was another error. Never seek out a victory before its time. Let it come to you, let it seek you out, and seize it with open arms. Chase after victory and it flies away, and so it was. My sword lashed out almost without my conscious thought in a vicious thrust, but he moved so quickly and subtly that I almost didn't realize he wasn't there until my lunge found nothing but empty air, throwing me off-balance. I whipped the sword around in a backhand, but my posture was all wrong and the blow was slower than it should have been, slower and far less sure, and he knocked it aside with that mailed glove, catching the flat of the blade with an expert's grace.

I had a choice, let go of the blade or let it carry me off to the side and leave myself open, and like a fool I chose the latter, holding onto it even as he used it to send me stumbling and then, before I could right myself, his unmailed hand caught me with a vicious slap, making my vision go black for a moment, leaving me dizzy.

He didn't go for the finish right then. He could have, and it might have worked, but what he did was much, much worse. He stepped back and smirked at me, an insult to my pride, and to my skill, and the crowd knew it and hooted and roared and laughed and the combination undid me.

Foolishness. Arrogance. Weakness.

I should have taken the time he gave me and regained my composure. I should have let my ears stop ringing and my hand stop shaking and my heart stop pounding. I should have let the white-hot rage that flowed through my veins dissipate, for an angry fighter is a poor fighter, and instead I let that rage carry me forwards into his trap.

I stepped in with a violent slash, the sword slicing in from his left, the side opposite his mailed fist, expecting him to dodge backwards and be put on his heels, but he didn't. He stepped into the blow, his hand coming down to encircle my wrist before I could complete the strike, and he pulled me past him hard, twisting viciously as I went, and this time I didn't have a choice about keeping the sword. This time the sword flew free, flying up in the air. I fell, sprawling on the sand beneath it, holding up a hand to try to catch the sword before it impaled me, but he reached out and caught it first, the tip inches from my face. He drew it back, holding it out in front of him, letting me see him holding my weapon, and then...

...then he snapped it over his knee, shattering my blade with contemptuous ease.

It rocked me to my core. It shouldn't have, a blade is just a blade, not a warrior, but the effortless way he'd disarmed me and then destroyed the blade smashed my hopes of an easy victory. Truly, if I'm honest, it destroyed my hopes of any victory at all, but I didn't let myself see that then. I see it now.

"You cling too tightly to what you were," he said, stripping off his gauntlet, throwing it to the side to stand naked before me, naked and erect, his body glistening with sweat, his muscles standing in sharp relief, and it came as a shock to me to realize how aroused I was. "You forget what you are, succubus."

"Then remind me," I purred, rubbing my thighs together, then spreading my legs apart in open invitation, my black-lipped sex dripping with arousal. "Show me. Use that cock you men are all so proud of. Show me what I'm meant to be."

I didn't think he would. I thought he'd be too cautious, too wary. I thought he'd fuck like he fought, and I was right, and I was wrong. He fought defensively, letting my arrogance lead me to him, letting my blundering guide him to victory. But he fucked like the world was on fire. His fighting was a castle that could not be sieged. His fucking was an onslaught, one for which I was utterly unprepared.

With a gesture from his fingers chains erupted from the floor, wrapping around my wrists and binding them outstretched, and as I realized what happened and struggled to free myself he was atop me, responding to my invitation, his fingers covering my sex, stroking and rubbing and teasing and moving, and as I squirmed and moaned and tried not to respond he sent a pulse of magic through them, through me, a pulse of warm, rippling pleasure that sent my whole body to shaking and gasping, performing a little horizontal dance on the arena floor.

It didn't make me cum. That wasn't the point. The point was to keep me off-balance while he drew the first of his sigils upon me, stroking it out in soft, swift motions until it glowed on my right hip, glowed waiting for me to empower it, and I was close to the climax that would do it, so close. I struggled against it, mewling sounds escaping my throat, and then he brought his hand up to my hair, wrapped up a handful of it and hauled back, forcing me to make eye contact with him as his other hand toyed with my sex.

"Strength," he said, "isn't found in the blade. Strength is in the warrior. And so is weakness."

I struggled to make sense of his words, to anchor myself against his attack, the attack I'd invited, the attack I'd welcomed, and then two fingers thrust deep into my sex and I clenched down madly around them and came.

I couldn't help it. I was so close, so close, and he knew it. He drew me right up to the edge and then pushed me over and I fell helplessly into that orgasm and if I had any hope of victory left that ended it there and then.

I fought back, defiant, gasping, spread my legs and invited him in, whispered to him, taunted him, told him he was a coward, called him all manner of vile insults, hoping to enrage him, but he remained cool as ice. He released my hair, drew his second sigil, this one on my left hip, and I growled up at him, told him I'd never let him power it, used all my strength to build up shields inside my mind, but those shields rely on confidence and my confidence was in tatters.

He felt me trying to shield myself, and he smiled. He brought that hand up from my hip, placed his palm on my forehead, and shattered my shields with as little effort as it would have taken him to brush aside a flea. My defenses were gone in an instant and in their place was nothing but pure howling lust, insatiable and desperate, making me ache to be fucked, taken, used, owned. I let out a scream of need, of desire, of despair, and then he was atop me, thrusting into me, and my despair turned to joy.

I clenched down hard around him, thinking he'd made his fatal error, and I struggled to draw forth his climax, realizing only too late that that joy I felt was a weapon being used against me, driving me towards my climax far faster than he was towards his. I tried to hold it back but it was like trying to hold back the tide, and I was inundated and overwhelmed and carried away as the second sigil flared to life.

I was shaking, moaning, gasping. I was beaten, but I refused to admit it. I was ready to be conquered, to be taken, to be enslaved.

I wasn't ready for him to free me from the chains. But he did.

With a snap of his fingers I was free and he withdrew from my dripping, aching sex and retreated, standing back, his eyes amused, his smile cruel, taunting, mocking.

"Your sword is gone," he said. "But you have the weapons a succubus is given. Think you're strong enough to use them? Or are you nothing but a weakling ripe for conquest?"

Rage flooded through me, and he knew it, playing my emotions and using them against me, fear and anger, humiliation and lust, and above all that pure, primal need we're created with, the need to feed and fuck and prey upon the weak. Those emotions rose up in my mind and overwhelmed me and I rose up from the sands and launched myself at him screaming a battlecry.

I caught him around the waist, knocking him back, landing astride him, and without a thought wrapped my tail around his cock and impaled myself upon him, riding him hard, setting a ferocious pace, determined to draw out the first sips of his essence and life, the first on the road to claiming his soul. I was hot, wet, impossibly aroused, caught up in lust and the moment. The crowd called and roared, but I barely noticed them. My world, my universe had shrunk until it was just me and him and nothing outside that mattered in the slightest. My hands rested on his chest and I thought I was holding him down, thought he was resisting me, thought I was conquering him.