Idle Hands: Finale

"When I first entered your mother's mind, I was on the verge of dissolution," she continued, pumping his rod slowly. "I took whatever I could get from her, even if it was the tiny bit of pleasure she received when she touched her breasts when she was changing clothes.

"But as we grew closer, the amount of power I could draw from her grew. When she masturbated, when she screwed Jeremy or made love with your father, I became stronger.

"But the bond is greater when I am involved personally. And when I love my partner. Think of it as a sliding scale. On one end there is the practically nonexistent bit of power I gain when I tap into a lonely man jacking off to porn on his computer. On the other end is the enormous amount I receive when I am making love to a person I hold dear.

"Like you."

She knelt and took him into her mouth, her golden hair falling around her face, hiding his groin from his view. He moaned aloud as he felt her tongue wrap around his length. She slowly slid down, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into her mouth, until her lips were pressed against the closely-clipped curls of his groin.

Rising, Althea licked her way back up, until only about half of his phallus was still in her mouth. Using her hands, she pulled her hair back from her face, then loosely knotted it at the nape of her neck. She smiled up at him, her eyes wicked, and drew her tongue up the underside of his cock. In response, his hips began to twitch helplessly, his body eager to spill his seed inside her.

She let him emerge from her mouth. Her hands cradled his groin tenderly. She looked up him, eyes bright, a glistening strand of his pre-cum connecting his tip to her lips.

"I like this," she purred, her fingers combing through his pubic hair. "When did you start to manscape?"

"A few days ago," he replied, resting his hands on her head. "Maria told me we were doing oral on each other so often that we should start shaving. Otherwise we'd be getting a lot of rugburn. I'm not sure if I'm ready to let a razor down there," he said. "But you can do wonders with a small pair of scissors. She likes it, which is the important thing. And I have to admit she looks even sexier with a shaved pussy."

"I like it, too," she replied, and dove back down. Less gentle, her mouth closed around him hungrily, so skillful he could do little but throw his head back and gasp.

Dimly, he became aware of something else. A hot, wet sensation, similar to a lover's tongue, but unmistakably different, began a slow, meandering path up the insides of his thighs. For a moment, it stroked his scrotum, leaving it with an oddly full and heavy feeling, then moved away.

With a hiss, he jumped, startled out of his sensual reverie. Althea backed away, her eyes wide with alarm. Her tail hung between them, the tip glistening with her nectar.

"Don't..." he started, then caught himself. With an effort, he gentled his voice. "I'd rather...you not go exploring back there, Althea."

"Really?" She pouted winsomely, but her eyes looked disappointed. "Are you sure? A lot of men like it," she wheedled.

"Some men, maybe. Not me." He paused, then taking pity on her morose expression, threw her a lifeline. "Not yet. Give me a chance to get used to the idea. Maybe we can try it some other time."

"All right." She grabbed his hips and pulled him close, her nose buried in his crotch. Her voice came unbidden into his mind. ~But if we're going to be lovers, you're going to have to get used to things far stranger than this, beloved.~

Maybe, he replied. But give a guy a chance to work his way up to it, okay? Having a succubus' tail probing my asshole is not how I expected the day to go.

Althea did not reply, which was probably a good thing. With her mouth pleasuring him, Alex was rapidly losing the capacity for rational thought. Her hands gripped his thighs firmly, holding him in place as she bobbed up and down. Perhaps punishing him for his earlier timidity, her tongue lashed his cock furiously, urgently driving him towards his orgasm. Her tail rested on his scrotum, massaging his balls like the palm of a loving hand. Her nectar seemed to seep through his skin, igniting a firestorm of lust in his loins. He placed his hands on her temples, his hips rocking back and forth, fucking her mouth with soft, sure strokes.

Althea hummed in happy satisfaction around his staff. Her blouse was draped around her waist, and as Alex watched, she hiked up the short hem of her skirt, her hands disappearing, but obviously delving deep into her womanly folds.

"Althea. I'm going to cum," he warned her.

"Good." She pulled back from his cock, her left hand pumping the red, slick flesh, the other still occupied elsewhere. She aimed the head at her plump lips, which were slightly open. "Come on, baby. Cum for me. Give me your seed, your semen, your sperm, your power!"

His cum boiled up the length of his shaft. With a strangled grunt, he came, the first ropy burst blasting across the gap between his cock and Althea's mouth. As if it were guided by a divine hand, it passed between her lips and into her waiting body. A low, hungry noise emerged, which was quickly muted as jolt after jolt passed through him, sending his seed into her.

As his spasms grew weaker, she leaned forward, fastening her lovely lips around his head. With subtle kisses and licks, she coaxed the last few drops from his penis, then sat back on her heels, her eyes gleaming happily.

"Oh," she said, laying a hand on her golden stomach. Her fingers caressed the shallow curves, and she shivered. "That was good." She licked her lips lasciviously, a wicked grin flitting across her face.

She rose to her feet and Alex kissed her, unmindful of the salty tang of his semen on her tongue. When they parted, she was looking at him strangely. "So you don't mind kissing me with your cum on my lips, but you don't want my tail up your butt?"

He just smiled at her, then knelt at her feet. He placed his hands on the shapely curves of her rear and pulled her close, until he could nuzzle the warm skin of her belly with his cheek. He tried to tug off her clothes, but she hampered his efforts.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Do you want to get on the bed, instead? I'd like to get you off before we leave."

She shook her head sadly, looking out the window. The light was growing golden as the sun passed west. "We don't have time. You need to get dressed."

She rose to her feet and rapidly did up her blouse. "Downstairs. Ten minutes. I'll be driving with you."

*****

They arrived at the theater in a group, three cars carrying the eight of them. As Alex parked, Althea jumped out of the vehicle. "Stay here," she said, all traces of her earlier playfulness gone. She walked around the car in a long, slow sweep, as tense as a hunting cat on the prowl. She waved Rachel and Sarah's cars in beside him, his father's truck still being at the repair shop after the mauling Kincaid had given it a few days ago. Only after she had surveyed the parking lot to her satisfaction did she give them permission to exit.

"What's the plan?" Rachel asked quietly. As if Althea's grim mood was contagious, her voice was deadly serious. On the outskirts of the group, Josh and Jeremy watched other cars pull in, their faces wary. Their hands were at their sides, and Alex knew that hidden in their clenched fists were the weapons Althea had helped them make. His father's was a small wood-carving knife, a gift from Alex's grandparents. Jeremy's was a small but wickedly sharp set of pruning shears.

"We take Alex to the actor's entrance and send him in. After that, I'll go in the main entrance with all of you. After you're seated, I'm going to hide myself backstage and wait for Kincaid to strike."

"Someone will see you," Alex protested. "There's not much room back there."

Althea shook her head. "If I don't want someone to see me, they won't." She grimaced regretfully. "Kincaid shares the same gift. I doubt any of you will notice him unless he chooses to reveal himself."

Walking in a protective huddle, Alex led them to the back of the theater to a service door marked 'Actors and Staff Only.'

"Well," he said awkwardly. "I guess this is it."

His mother caught him in a strong embrace. "Good luck," she said. "I love you." Mindful of eyes that might be watching, she kept her kiss a chaste one, the merest brush on his cheek.

His father shook his hand, as did Jeremy. Yasna gave him a careful nod. Sarah punched him on the shoulder. "Break a leg, boyo."

Althea stood aside as Maria came forward. "Te amo," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Then his arms were around her in an embrace which had nothing to do with passion, but everything to do with love. She kissed him; one long, deep kiss which held the promise of thousands of tomorrows to come, then stepped away.

"I love you," he answered. He took them all in with his eyes. Family, friends, and lovers. He opened his mouth. "There is too much to say. And not enough time. Thank you. Thank you for everything." With a last look, he squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

*****

"Whooo," Frank Pendleton whistled. "Who was that gorgeous brunette girl I saw you making out with, Sunderman? Have you been holding out on us? I thought you were single."

Alex looked up in the mirror, to where the man who would be playing Brabantio stood behind him. "I was," he said. He let the silence drag out, then grinned lecherously, playing for the watching crowd. "But I'm not anymore. Her name's Maria."

"Well, good for you," Frank replied, flopping down in the makeup chair next to his. He was already in costume, but had his hair tied back. "Jen, honey, aren't you done with this guy yet? Curtain is in thirty minutes."

Jen Bosler, who served as their makeup artist, frowned at Frank. "Almost," she replied, examining her work. "Alex, what do you think?"

"I just wish you woulld let me use a mustache," he said. "How can I get into character if I can't twirl it like Snidely Whiplash?"

"I'm sure you'll manage," Dartanon Burfict, who played Othello, walked into the room. "God, what did I do to deserve such an ugly co-star? Jen, can't you saw off that nose or something? This is Shakespeare, not a fucking production of Cyrano de Bergerac."

"Get bent, you scene-stealing hack," Alex replied.

"Raving egomaniac."

"Do you want me to write down your lines for you? I'm sure they'll come in useful when you forget them half-way through your first scene."

"Just remember," Dartanon said with a wide, toothy grin, "that you are a member of an inferior class. You know. White people. It's not your fault," he continued, shaking his head sadly. "You're just naturally not as awesome as us."

"Go screw yourself, you Wesley Snipes wannabe."

"God, will someone shut those two up?" said Professor Olsen, walking into the room. "Alex, you're done. Get up and let Jen put some gray into Dartanon's beard."

"I don't like it," the soon-to-be Othello grumbled, sitting in the vacated chair. "It makes me look like my grandfather."

"A sexy grandfather," Jen said, leaning down and kissing his cheek.

"Jesus, get a room," Frank said, eying Jen's lush curves admiringly. The remark won him a slap on the back of the head. Other actors and actresses drifted in, the byplay catching their attention. Professor Olsen eyed them, his habitual nervousness matching the mood of the room.

"All right," he said, clapping his hands twice for attention. "I know it's our first night. And it's the first play for a lot of you." His voice firmed, his stance becoming, for once, commanding. "Relax. I've been doing this for nearly forty years, off and on, and there is literally nothing I haven't seen. There is no screw-up so massive that would come as a surprise to me. I've had actors break down in hysterics on stage. I've had an entire production canceled due to an e coli outbreak after a bad trip to a taco truck in El Paso. I've had lighting fail, sets fall apart, and a theater burn down during a showing of Cat On a Hot Tin Roof.

"Now go out there and make me proud. Or I'll pull your lungs out."

*****

Kincaid handed over his ticket, then walked slowly through the lobby of the theater, avoiding the clumps of stupidly chattering humans. The urge to take his true form and lay waste to the ignorant sheep milling around him was almost overwhelming.

One more night. Then this exile will be over.

"Can I help you, sir?" The young woman at the refreshment stand looked at him with adoring, bovine eyes, no doubt impressed by his handsome face and expensive clothes.

Throttling his rage, he paused, counted to ten, then ordered a soda and a pack of Twizzlers.

I have to get out of here, he thought feverishly, stalking away and heading towards the restroom. I'm losing control. Becoming one of them. The lost ones. Before long I'll be nothing but an animal, killing every human I see until one of the accursed succubi put me down like a rabid dog.

It was the curse of his kind. The spawn of a human and demon mating was inherently unstable. With judicious, careful killing to slake their blood-lust, a demon-spawn could stave off the inevitable deterioration of its psyche for years. Sometimes even decades. But sooner or later they would succumb and go on a murderous rampage, fit only for destruction. And then they would be killed, unable to reason or evade the hunters of God.

Keep it together. Kill the boy. Then the mother. Then the succubus. Go home. Before it's too late.

Pulling out his flaccid penis, he began to urinate. As he did so, he thought back to the vapidly pretty concession-girl. Would his life be different, he wondered, if he had been able to find humans attractive? To mate with them, as revolting as the thought might be?

The demon-spawn were the polar opposite of their immortal kindred. While the succubi and incubi rutted with any human that stood still (and some that didn't) the demon-spawn were, for all intents and purposes, completely sexless. Kincaid had tested this himself, over a period of several years. All sorts of pornography, both written and visual, had not brought the slightest response from him. Neither had contracted liaisons with prostitutes of either gender.

To be truthful, he was grateful. Human relationships seemed to be...untidy.

But disposing of the bodies afterward had been tiresome.

Exiting the bathroom, he entered the theater. Unobtrusively, he sniffed the air, hunting for his quarry's scent. He hid a grin as he slid into a seat in the fifth row, near the center aisle. There. Wainwright was above him, probably hid in the shadows of the balcony. The nature-loving bitch probably wanted the best view of her darling son she could get.

Enjoy it, Rachel. It'll be your last.

*****

Rachel sat in the balcony, her hands gripping Josh's arm on one side, and Sarah's on the other. Behind them, Jeremy, Maria, and Yasna sat in a row.

How did it come to this? If she had had the good sense to simply drive around that traffic accident a few weeks ago, none of this would have happened. Althea would have perished, trapped in the body of a dying mortal man. She would still be estranged from Josh. Her children would be on the verge of an open break with her, she would never have met Yasna, and Maria and Jeremy would never be more than what they had been at the time; a well-liked but replaceable intern and a maid who was no different than a thousand other women in the city.

Thus am I repaid for a momentary weakness, she thought morbidly, and had to stifle an insane giggle.

It was either that, or scream.

"How long until they start?" she whispered, for the third time in the last four minutes.

"Any second now," Josh replied, his voice low and soothing. Despite herself, Rachel felt the tension at her shoulders ease the tiniest bit. "It's-" he broke off as the curtain rose.

Alex and another young man walked onto the stage from the right. Behind them, props gave the impression they were standing on a city street at dusk. Her son was wearing a plain white shirt, a black leather vest, and dark trousers, belted at the waist. A scabbard holding a long dagger in a sheath hung from the belt, and low boots rose to mid-calf.

The other man spoke:

"Tush! Never tell me; I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this."

Her son replied, in such a tone of subtle contempt that she would have slapped him had his face been within range of her hand:

"'Sblood. But you will not hear me:

If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me."

A smattering of applause, quickly silenced, drifted up from the lower level. Rachel forgot everything, her eyes intent on the terribly vulnerable young man on the stage. Her blood. Her son. Her lover.

Bait for an immortal evil.

*****

As Alex spoke his lines, the words flowing from his mouth effortlessly, he felt exalted. If he thought rehearsal was a natural high, it was nothing compared to the sensation of playing in front of a live crowd. This was what he had been born for. Even as he sank into the role, the demonic Iago playing on Othello's insecurity, stoking the fires of jealousy, he wondered whether he should choose the stage, or whether a life on the big screen as a film actor would be the better choice.

He snorted silently at his ambition and pulled his mind back to his craft, concentrating on his scene. Suddenly, a flicker of motion in his right eye caught his attention, and he stumbled over his line. Quickly he caught himself, but the motion repeated. As the focus of the scene left him and centered on Cassio and Montano, he frowned into the crowd.

Kincaid, grinning like a death's-head, met his horrified gaze. He was perhaps five or six rows back from the stage, just off the center aisle. The seats to either side of him were empty, as if his presence was sensed and shunned by others. With a smirk, he drew a finger across his neck in a throat-cutting motion, then vanished from his sight.

Well. I guess I'm going to have to be a better actor than I thought. I have to do the play without wetting my pants. And I'm going to have to look afraid enough that Kincaid won't find it suspicious that I'm not wetting my pants out of sheer terror.

He felt sweat break out on his upper lip as the reality of the situation sank in. Althea was nearby. Of that he was certain. But he had not been sure that Kincaid would actually dare to attack them in a building full of potential witnesses. And Althea's presence, while comforting, seemed to somehow count for less when she was invisible, but Kincaid most assuredly was not.

The scene was interminable. When it finally ended he was trembling from the strain. After exiting the stage he leaned against a post, breathing deeply.

"Are you okay, man?" asked Jack Sinclair, who was playing Roderigo, Desdemona's father. His voice was oddly young when it emerged, disguised by his beard and long gray wig.

He waved him away. "Just nerves, man. I'll be all right."

Jack nodded. "Well, if it's any help, you are kicking ass out there. Everyone says so. Even Olsen."

When Jack left, Alex closed his eyes and whispered softly. "Althea?"

A response, soft as a child's breath in his ear. "I'm here."

He swallowed. "Kincaid's here. He let me see him. Middle of the lower level, about five rows back."

A long pause. "I see him now. Thank you, Alex." A brush of lips on his cheek. "Be brave."

*****

Maria watched the play in an exaltation of terror. Days as Alex's lover had given her a better understanding of the story, and her novio's role in it. She gloried at his ability as he strode about the stage, commanding the attention of all present. She smiled to herself as a low growl broke for the audience as Iago's villainous perfidy, his lies and slanders, wrapped the pitiable Othello in a net of his own weaknesses.