In the Arms of the Succubus

"Millie's Vast Expanse"

© Copyright 2017/19/21 by Millie Dynamite

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

While night's black agents to their preys do rouse.

Shakespeare Macbeth

Tucked away, in a corner of the Expanse, in a distant past, lies a quaint little village by the sea. It's filled with people going about their daily lives. They are born, grow up, these mortals marry, have children, grow old, and they die. Such is the way of all mortal flesh, even in Millie's Vast Expanse.

But in this little nook of the expanse exists an immortal who feeds on mortals in a most distinctive manner. A creature of legend, living in the pit of man's fears, she craves the force which exists in all life. Spying a devout man, she desires him, uses him, takes from him, and brings him low. Tread with light feet in this cranny of Millie's Vast Expanse, lest she hears you and takes your soul. For you see, Maranda has a thirst she cannot quench.

* * * * *

Once upon a time, there lived a priest in a small village next to the sea: a devout man, a loyal servant. A man the village depended on to lift their spirits in times of despair and share their joy. He christened them, wed them, and buried them. And yet, he carried a secret until his dying day. A secret that blotted his soul and covered all the good with a stain of evil.

It began so many years ago, in a land across the sea. Can you see the village? There it is, just a short distance from the sea. The stone or wood houses clustered close together, the closer the better, affording protection to its inhabitants. The rolling hills around it. Can you not see the quaint church built in the shape of the Cross, with its beautiful rose garden?

Fog rolled over the small village as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The mist crept over the church and the lovely rose garden next to that old stone structure, thickening with each passing moment. The air chilled as the fog devoured sunset's light, and the eerie red glow of the setting sun faded into the clutches of darkness.

Father Sylvester pulled his overcoat tight and buttoned it. Running his finger under the collar, the priest thought to himself, getting tight. Either I'm putting on weight, or I have worn this thing for too long.

Turning his back to the breeze, he continued his prayer, keeping track of each one with the beads of his rosary. The breeze intensified through the church garden, scattering the leaves. Father Sylvester felt its frigid effect. Having finished his act of contrition, he rose, crossed himself, and moved through the roses toward the rectory. Even the roses couldn't mask the foulness of the town's stink, of animal and human waste strewn around the village. After all, it was the Dark Ages.

A thick column of fog swirled ahead of him, creating shapes in the white mist. Was it taking human form? Surely not, he admonished himself. Yet, it shifted, rolling tighter together, until the figure of a woman seemed to materialize before him. Sylvester stopped dead in his tracks. Like an apparition, this waif of a woman emerged from the fog, small and delicate, not quite five feet tall. Her face was framed with long white hair, the pale complexion of her skin bordered pure, white ivory, as if she had never been exposed to the light of the sun. There she stood blocking his path.

Though stunned, Father Sylvester studied her, unsure of her race. Certainly, she wasn't from these parts. Her eyes fixed on the priest, scrutinizing his face as though she sought an answer. The woman's amber eyes caught the faint light and radiated a red hue from the center. They captured his attention, mesmerizing the priest. There was such beauty, the likes of which he had not seen for many years.

With a knowing look, the lift of an eyebrow, he knew she saw through his appearance of piety. He realized she sensed his long-buried yearnings and dark desires. Her lips curled a little, not a smile nor smirk, more something closer to contempt.

Father Sylvester's feet seemed frozen to the ground. The fog obscured everything but the woman. He gazed at her, feeling something ... something he hadn't felt in such a long time. Deep inside him, the old desires, so long buried, bubbled, demanding attention. And this ... exquisite creature ... she knew those feelings. He felt the same longings in her, a fire wanting to consume them together.

"Pardon me," he muttered, attempting to move but discovering he couldn't. "Do I know you?"

She shook her head, standing before him, a commanding presence. Her eyes held him transfixed. His brain said run; something else told him to stay. He couldn't draw himself away from those eyes. The will of iron of the priest dissolved as her eyes drank him into her. He inched closer, his feet finding their way, though not of his own volition. Against his own will, he moved right up to her.

Their eyes locked together in an uncomfortable embrace. He felt her willing him to her. Her mind tempted his. A battle ensued that the priest only vaguely comprehended. But drunk on her beauty, his will crumbled. His long-standing, self-imposed, stoic resistance to yield to the fairer flesh faltered.

The dark desires, those youthful yearnings, so long suppressed, welled inside him. He felt the moisture of the fog gather on his face. The foul stench of humanity hung in the air. The people, all so close, pressed together confined, in the tight parameter of the tiny village, their odoriferous stink wafting to him in the night air, fouling his nostrils. This wasn't a dream.

Nonetheless, Father Sylvester prayed that this was not a reality. That this gorgeous specter was some construct of his subconscious brain. A fevered dream and nothing more. That said, the priest ached for her to be flesh and blood. After all, he'd resisted carnal pangs of sexual hunger for twenty years. Sylvester thought himself beyond what he felt, that hunger that gnawed. Yes, he thought, a vision, pray God, a dream. Still, it seared inside him, and the lust he had suppressed for so long threatened to break the surface.

A gorgeous woman who exuded sensuality stood before him, unashamed. Her dark nipples stood erect, plainly visible through the sheer white gown. For the world, it looked like a burial shroud. A blonde tuft of hair formed a triangle at the point where her legs met. He felt the blood rushing to his own nether regions, inspired by the sight of her. He tried to fight it, but the flesh is weak.

Wanton lust burned inside him, and the man sensed the same licentiousness in her. The beauty before him consumed his thoughts, his emotions, even his soul. Her pink tongue darted out, ran over her full crimson lips; her nostrils flared as if she inhaled his scent. Sylvester tried to say something, but the words didn't come. She moved to him, lifted her tiny hand, and placed a dainty finger on his lips.

"We don't need words," she said, then her hand dropped to his, and instinctively, he took her hand. An icy, hot blast of energy flowed between them as the realization burst in him. This was, indeed, real. She was real. He followed as the magnificent female guided him away from the garden. A peculiar fragrance hung in the air, her scent rendering him powerless to do anything but drink in her aroma. He wanted to bury his nose in that smell until it filled every fiber of his being. The foul stench of the village faded, replaced with her fragrance, far sweeter than the roses he grew.

Standing at a crossroad, Sylvester knew if he moved to the path on the left, he might never return to the one on the right. He needed to turn away from her, run back to his church, and beg for forgiveness. But the priest continued his journey, one step at a time, following blindly where she led. The chill in the air vanished, and now the moist air of the fog warmed his flesh. Onward, they progressed through the thick swirls of mist.

As they walked past the church, his sanctum, a momentary alarm overcame him, yet it passed at the sight of her hand in his, calming his heart. On they continued, moving into her own darker realm. Passing through a backstreet, they crossed into a field sloping down to the sea. No one saw their passage, hidden in the swirling mist. Their destination appeared out of the white fog ahead of them. A small structure away from all the other dwellings. It was old, falling into ruin, a place no one would venture into. The villagers deemed it an evil place, yet Father Sylvester saw it as something different, something secret, an enjoyable place of safety, inviting him inside.

She opened the door and led the cleric inside to a small room. A single candle burned in the tight space, its flickering flame illuminating the room and cast ghost-like shadows from one place to another inside the chamber. The main feature of the room was the bed, covered in rose petals. Thousands of petals, all the rainbows colors, including black ones, lay inches thick, forming a wild, colorful spread. Sylvester knew he shouldn't be here. The shame of his lust burned within him, but she now possessed his every fiber.

Letting go of his hand, she walked to the center of the room then turned; her eyes gazed into his own, past them into his mind. If any resistance remained, it took flight when her eyes peered into his soul.

"Close the door," she told him, and he did so without question. Turning back to her, he beheld her beauty as she slipped out of the thin raiment. She eyed him, landing on the crucifix. "Remove the cross. It is an affront to me."

"But, Miss, it represents my Faith," Sylvester said.

"Your faith," she said, "there is no room for His Faith in this place. Remove it now, and place your faith in me."

Father Sylvester tried to resist, but he couldn't. The cross had become heavy, unyielding, as it hung on his hip like a swordsman's armament. Removing it, he placed it reverently in a darkened area of the small building.

"Now, with your conscience tucked away, remove your clothing," she said with contempt. "It offends me with its religious connotations."

"Who are you?"

"Maranda," she replied.

"Wha... what are you?" he asked, for he knew she wasn't human.

"I am your weakness," she said. "Your downfall. I am all you crave. I am the thing which you have denied yourself. Pleasure, lust, fulfillment, passion personified; I am the essence of all your darkness."

Unable to argue, he turned away from her, tripped himself of his vestments. Pilling the coverings of his position in the darkened corner, covering the cross and his rosary beads as if to shield them from the sin he was to commit. He stood and twisted back her, the shame welling within him as his body betrayed him, showing her how much he wanted her.

With a derisive glance at his growing member, she lay on the bed, spreading her arms and legs. Lifting a hand, her finger beckoned him to come to her bed.

"Come, Sylvester," she ordered him, "come and worship your goddess, Maranda."

In vain, the priest fought the order, his mind rebelling at the sacrilege. Standing his ground, he clenched his fists in one last act of defiance to save his soul. Yet the desire of his flesh throbbed, needing her.

In a flash of anger, Maranda sat up and glowered at him, her amber eyes burning into his soul. Pressing her will into his mind, she ordered him without words.

This battle, fought and won so many times before, began anew in him. Was one failure all that important? Wouldn't God forgive one transgression of the flesh? Still, he resisted, but those eyes drew him in. He could not resist those red-tinted eyes and lost himself in those lipid pools of amber. Like an insect in sap, she trapped him.

"You have shed yourself of your sacred ornamentation. You laid your vestments in a dark corner and turned your back on them. Now abandon your self-righteous, sanctimonious piety and worship me. Come to me!"

Miranda's order burned into his brain, withering his will. Sylvester's fists relaxed. He moved his left foot forward, then his right. Each step became more comfortable to take. With each passing moment, his duty to the church, to God, dimmed in his mind. There was nothing but Maranda.

Mounting the bed, Sylvester prostrated himself face down in her pubic hair. Inhaling her intoxicating perfume, he quivered with desire. He could breathe this fragrance for eternity. Then came the other scent. The salty, metallic, sexually charged redolence that overtook him, overwhelming his desire.

The goddess lay back, then clutching a handful of his salt and pepper hair, she pushed him down into her own musky petals. Digging her nails in, she forced his lips to her.

"Worship," she ordered, and the word burned into his heart. His tongue slivered over her labia, parting the lips as he explored the moist folds. The taste held more flavor than he remembered; sweeter, more metallic, a thick goo oozing to devour. His mind raced as something fled from him to her. Her hips writhed as he continued, exploring her. He consumed the sticky fluid, and again, while he took from her, something left him. Arching up, she pushed his head lower.

"Worship in this place, now," she demanded.

He willed himself to stop, and he tried to move away, but some unseen...thing...demanded him to continue. His tongue darted about until the woman, satisfied with his devotion, dragged his head back to her savory folds. The hesitation bolted, Sylvester explored and tasted every inch between her legs with relished abandonment. Father Sylvester fell far from grace. And again, something left him and went to her.

Soon, Maranda's hips bucked, and she ground herself against him. Her breath hastened, her breasts heaved, as her body shuddered through one massive orgasm after another.

Father Sylvester grew weaker as each climax sucked his life's energy from him. Fear erupted in Sylvester. He now knew what the woman was—the word formed in his mind.

Succubus.

The priest knew he was lost.

Even so, he stayed, unwilling to leave her. Like a mouse enthralled by the gaze of a snake, he embraced his own destruction—a willing, eager prey sacrificing itself to the predator.

He crawled up her body ... kissing ... caressing, gently biting her icy cold, blistering hot flesh. Spending time on her breasts, he pinched, squeezed, and cupped her perfection, yearning for her to take everything from him. And yet, the niggling voice told him, "You'll burn in hell."

Nevertheless, he didn't care. At last, he beheld Miranda's eyes, losing all concern for his soul in her brilliant, blinding gaze. The demons in Hell laughed and rejoiced, his fall made complete.

"Make sweet love to me, priest," she commanded. "Violate your oath, Sylvester, and become mine completely. You know you want it. Your rewards will be sweet. Your pain superbly entwined with your pleasure."

They joined together as her hands moved over his flesh, and the embers burst into flames. Their bodies undulated, twisting and turning like snakes in a lustful orgy, becoming one flesh. She took more of him. He gave to her without understanding. Emotions, desires, and needs buried inside him for decades boiled over as she lapped up his strength. As they made love, he felt parts of his soul, one small piece at a time, became hers.

Her touch drew more of him to her. They lunged together, his only conscious thought, a craving to please her. Her succulent body thrashed underneath him, driving Sylvester nearer and nearer the edge, until unable to contain himself any longer, he reached the pinnacle. All the years of denied pleasure culminated in a shattering climax. It had been so long since the priest had yielded to the flesh. The pure joy of it intoxicated him, controlled him, and more of his soul fled into her.

And yet, still unsatisfied, the dance continued. But slowly, Sylvester's strength left him. Free-will bolted, his morals evaporated at every touch, and she devoured him with their every movement.

No sooner did he climax, leaving him feeling—consumed, when their craving reignited. No release brought him completion, yet each took something from him. They changed positions. He kneeled, and the goddess ordered him to pray to her, to worship her.

He offered her thanksgiving and praise as his loving hands roamed her perfect body. He swore his life and soul to her as he lost more of himself. He willingly gave her anything and everything she asked of him.

He wanted forgiveness, but he could no longer remember how to ask for it. He wanted help but couldn't form the cognitive link to understand how to receive it. In the end, he only wanted his goddess. Desperately, he needed her touch, the taste of her aromatic essence.

He didn't know how many times they had copulated; the number didn't matter. He needed one more time and then another. After hours, his strength failed, and he collapsed on top of Maranda, then rolled off and landed on the floor. On his back, he looked up at the ceiling, unable to focus his eyes.

That notwithstanding, he wanted more. He felt Maranda mount him again, even as he lay on the floor. She ran her hot and cold hands over his skin. Hot flames of desire spread at her touch as she took in more of his being. He felt his discharge shoot inside her again. And she greedily demanded more, sucking his life and soul into her. She returned nothing but more lust to him.

In a frail, weak voice, he repeatedly whispered worshipful prostrations of her beauty and grace. His eyes dimmed; he couldn't lift his arms. His hands trembled as his body shuddered. His proclamation changed.

"You're killing me," he whispered.

"Yes," Maranda answered him. "Is it not—glorious?"

Rising from him, she picked up her garment, pulling it around her. She looked down at him, and his eyes misted over. Or perhaps she was returning to the form she had sprung from. As the sun broke through the window, his vision of her wavered. Maranda faded along with the evaporating fog as the ruined shack filled with sunlight, as she'd first appeared with the fading of the light. She was gone, leaving him prostrate on the floor.

"Come back," he whispered, "please come back, come back." He begged for her return until he succumbed to sleep, still laying on the bare floor. Waking, at midday, he slowly redressed himself. The cross and rosary pulled at him, hurting his hip. The clothing clung to him, scratching his flesh. On weak, shaky legs, he stumbled down the alleyway back toward his church.

As the days passed, his strength returned. A week later, he had buried the entire event deep in his subconscious. One evening, several weeks later, as he prayed in the garden, the words stuck in his throat. His thoughts darkened, a thickening fog wrapped him, and the aroma wafted into his nostrils. Her familiar, sweet scent covered the foulness of the village. Rising, he turned, and Miranda was there.

"Goddess," he said.

"Come to me," she answered him.

And he did.

And so, it went for years, as she would take him, hand in hand, back to the rundown building. True to her word, he prospered, becoming a bishop, cardinal, and eventually Pope Sylvester II. Their conjugal visitation manifested in a dark, rundown corner of the Vatican. Each time he tried to resist, and each time, he knew he never could. When his health began to fail him, he returned to the village by the sea. Nightly he prayed in the garden. Nightly she came and visited him. Until one night, his shame was finally over as he passed in her arms. Drained of his life's energy in one final act of submission.