Interview with a Succubus Pt. 01

He looked around at the decadent ornaments on the walls, the incredible paintings that hung from them, the furniture more expensive than the last ten apartments he'd rented combined... he was waking up from a nap in a French chateau, and he had no memory of getting here.

Panic built up in Tim's chest as he remembered the moments before passing out. The strange, impossibly sexy woman who identified herself as Keres... her transformation into an image out of biblical nightmares... the way her words seemed to physically affect him, causing his penis to grow hard, then flaccid, then incredibly hard again before he *actually came in his pants.* What had she said right before he blacked out? "I... am a succubus." Fuck. Shit. God dammit. He wished he had never answered that fucking email. It's like he'd been tricked into starring in a fucked up adaptation of Dracula, only his enemy was the woman of his deepest, sexiest dreams and could make him cum simply by talking.

He groaned and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. Okay, Tim. You've covered war zones. You can survive this.

He looked around again. His clothes were clean. He wasn't even naked--an extra pair of boxers from his luggage hugged his waist. He got out of bed and moved to the large person-sized mirror in the corner to get a full appraisal.

In the mirror, Tim was surprised by what he saw. He looked like shit, but it was the kind of shit one looked when one traveled across the Atlantic fucking Ocean on a whim and a prayer as he had. His body didn't otherwise look different: lean, a little toned and a little flabby in equal measure; standing at a solid 5'8 - a life-saving height, he liked to joke; if he'd been taller a sniper would have taken him out during one of his warzone excursions in 200x. As it had occurred, he would tell anyone who bothered to listen, the bullet had just whizzed right over his head.

What he left out was that the bullet found its mark in the medic that was part of his guard detail. The face of that kid kept him up some nights, even 20 years removed. He shook his head and the ghosts of that imbroglio vanished once more. They'd be back. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

This woman identified as a succubus... yet he found no holes on his body through which blood was drained, and he didn't feel like a Mack truck had run him over in a sexual manner... had she really taken him back to her place after a traumatic experience and left him to sleep it out unmolested? He stumbled back over to the nightstand and started the awkward and clumsy process of re-clothing himself. He was getting out of here, but first, he was going to get some answers.

***

A servant pointed Tim in the direction of the main dining hall. As he marched down to it, he left troves of French history passed by unnoticed. He barged into the room, where he was once again surprised to find it empty - aside from Keres, who sat at the head of the table, looking like she had before her transformation, but this time with her extravagant curves covered in a mess of decadent hanging robes. Before she had a chance to speak, Tim exclaimed, "What did you do to me?!"

Keres looked slightly taken aback. When she spoke, Tim detected no strange body-altering notes. He really had shocked her. "I didn't do anything to you that I'd intended, Tim," she said. "I want to extend my deepest apologies to you. When I told you that I will not harm you, nor allow you to come to harm, I meant every word."

Tim faltered. He didn't feel like she was manipulating him in any way. And really, had he been hurt? No; just surprised.

But what about the--?

"You made me cum!" he felt the words blurting out before he could stop himself. At this, Keres's eyes went wide for a moment, and then she burst into real laughter. He glared at her angrily before he, too, felt laughter rise through him. He tried to hold firm, but the moment was too absurd to hold a straight face, much less the anger he'd carried with him from the bedroom.

Tim walked to the table and sat down in a chair far away from Keres. Really, it felt more like he was collapsing in it. The combination of jet-lag, post-orgasmic clarity, and sheer terror at beholding Keres's true form had left him feeling run ragged. As Keres wiped a tear from her eye and finished her laughter attack, she made a motion with her other hand and a servant brought a premade plate of the most gourmet French cuisine Tim'd ever seen in his life.

"Tim, thank you... that was the funniest outburst I've heard in centuries," she said. Centuries. There it was. Through the moment of levity, a reminder that she was an ancient monster warned about by religious texts going back to the dawn of civilization. A small vein of ice in an otherwise pleasant situation.

"Please, eat," she said. "I'm sure you already have no end of questions, and we will have time for them, but you must be famished."

On the plate in front of Tim was a rack of meadow-salted lamb, accompanied by a helping of Coquilles Saint-Jacques and Joue de bœuf: a meal that screamed "Normandy." Any one of these plates could have sustained him for a week; he ravenously devoured them all.

No words were exchanged during the meal, at which Keres only sipped from a glass of local Pinot Noir while watching Tim intently. He felt her intense gaze wash over him, like it was searching for something. He felt not dissimilar to the time he'd covered a doctor who conducted laser brain surgery: she was looking for something to eradicate from his mind entirely, and he didn't know what it was or how to protect against it.

When he finally finished his food, he stifled a belch and took a sip of wine. Keres remained seated, serenely looking through his mental filing cabinets. He stared back, feeling more than awkward in the silence.

After a moment, she started, like she'd been daydreaming, and clapped her hands together. "Are we all finished?" she said, sounding eerily now like a schoolteacher. "Let us retire to the sitting room, shall we?" Then she got up, not without a small amount of effort given the narrower seats at the table, and walked out of the room. Tim sat for a moment.

*What am I doing?* he thought.

Then he got up and followed her through the door into the next room.

It was the middle of summer, but Keres sat in a comfortable armchair close to a blazing fire.

"It's a bit chillier here than where I'm used to," she said. "Not the place you're thinking of; I'm talking about my hometown in southern Greece."

"How did you know I was thinking of anything different?" Tim said. He'd been thinking of Hell, of course.

"I can read your thoughts, silly." She said it so nonchalantly. He blanched. She saw his reaction and moved to correct herself. "No no no no--I'm so sorry again, I mean that I can hear your thoughts," she said. "Whatever you think arrives in my brain at the same volume and tone as if you were talking. I can't turn it off, and I can't help hearing what I hear." Tim once again felt the world reeling around him. "I can also" *transmit,* she said, her voice entering his head unbidden. *though I don't* "like to do it that often, as my previous partners have expressed discomfort at its practice."

"So you... you have telepathy," he said.

"I do."

"And you can shapeshift."

"Ah, I'm so glad you remembered that!" she beamed. "I was worried that you fainted and had completely forgotten."

"And you can... what? Control people's bodies with your words?"

Keres frowned at this description. "No... control is the wrong term," she said slowly. "I think before we continue, we should finish what we started in the archival room. Don't worry, I won't change -- though I do feel so much more comfortable in that form -- but I will explain to you in swift detail what I am and what I need from you for the next two weeks. Is that okay?"

Tim nodded, unsure what to say and what to feel.

"Okay, let us resume."

--I am a succubus, Tim Jones, and I - along with my sisters and incubi brethren - have finally decided to come out of hiding. With your help, the news of our existence to the world may not end up being such a shock. We expect backlash from groups like the Catholic Church - long have they hated us especially - and other religious organizations, but with the full details out there, we might have a chance to not only survive, but thrive in the modern age alongside humans, for the first time.

We have always been here. Our folklore and more recent scientific study places us at the birth of humanity onward. We are not ourselves homo sapiens, but we developed alongside you. Occasionally we tried to integrate - but those attempts rarely ended well. The Greeks were, by all accounts, the least bothered by us, calling us Nymphs and Satyrs and avatars of Dionysus and Aphrodite and so on, but other civilizations felt we were demons at the gate come to take their children or some other such horror.

We developed certain gifts to help us survive. Telepathy, to hear the thoughts of those we consorted with, to make sure they wouldn't try to kill us when we slept; the ability to change shape, to blend in with humans and, when times called for it, shape ourselves to their desires; and the ability to control our pheromone production and distribution, so as to confound or entice anyone who might have found us in a compromised position.

We got by as... sex workers is the modern parlance. Whores. Harlots. Prostitutes, you understand. Nobody tended to question us in that role, though church and state authorities would often still persecute us just because they felt like it. Not all those who found themselves in this profession were succubi, of course; we saw how your societies treated the least of these through them.

--Tim felt ice run through his veins as Keres told this part of her story. A righteous fury was emanating from her... pheromones, did she say?

--We have lasted through the centuries thanks in no small part to our skill and cunning. But we have decided to run no further. We've taken inspiration from several social movements in the modern age. Several of us - and I am among them - have developed what some of humanity's political radicals might call a "liberatory attitude."

We wish to be free, Tim. That is all we want. If you help us gain our freedom, to be able to walk in the sunlight as our true selves, you will be compensated grandly.

Oh, I almost forgot: In addition to your primary tasks, there is a... tertiary task I must ask of you. This will be part of our contract as well.

As a succubus, I am... blessed... with an exceptionally high libido. I must have sex, or be brought to orgasm, many multiple times per day, otherwise I start to feel unwell. Additionally, while the stories about us subsisting on semen and human souls are false, it is true that part of our... hmm, satisfaction is derived from the psychic element. I get... something from the energy given off by a partner's orgasm, not to put too fine a point on it. And I am driven by a deep, insatiable hunger for my own pleasure and that psychic blowback. This is not true of every succubus and incubus, just as it isn't true for all humans to love or need sexual contact, but I am... very old, even among my people, and the older we get, the more intense things tend to be.

Your third task: you are to be my sexual partner for the next two weeks, should you agree to this contract. Any longer than two weeks and I fear you may not live to receive your payment.

--Keres's voice softened, releasing Tim from the reverie once again. "I want to be clear, Tim. You do not have to accept this contract if you truly do not want to," she said. "Your will is your own, truly. After what happened today at the museum, I would understand if you left as soon as I finish up here. But... I genuinely believe you're the one who can help us."

--To recap: You will interview me. You will help me examine documents to find the missing artifact, as discussed. You will provide me with sexual relief as needed. These are the three demands I make, and the three jobs you will perform for the next two weeks. You will write the interview into a story for Occult Quarterly, who will publish it in their next issue, due out in two months. As compensation for the work you do here, you will be paid $200,000 in US dollars and be given free passage through any Succubus/Incubus territories for life. Thus I have laid out our contract. The decision is yours to make.

--The process was finally over, and Tim observed that Keres slumped forward a little bit, as though it had tired her out to speak that entire contract into the ether, or something. He didn't feel anything coming from her, no weird tones or strange vibes like earlier. She wasn't fucking around with his brain.

"So if I do this," Tim said slowly. "You'll just... give me two hundred grand, first rights to the story of an entirely new species of people just coming to light, and a pat on the back and I'm on my way in two weeks?"

Keres nodded. "That is... as you might say... the gist of it, yes."

"You know, I was skeptical of this entire thing," Tim said. "I almost didn't answer the first email from Al's rag, because it looked like it was written by a prankster. Then I almost bailed here in Paris when the driver gave me bad vibes about you. Then, after you turned into a bat-person and I had a scared cum and fainted, I wanted to fight my way out of this chateau, Rambo-style. I'm still a little bit fucked up by the day I've had, and I'm being asked to make one of the most consequential decisions of my life, in front of maybe the most impossibly beautiful women I've ever seen who also scares the shit out of me, AND I'm jet-lagged."

Every word out of Tim's mouth was even-keeled. All the anger and fear and weird sexual frustration he'd felt earlier was just not present right now. It was like he was reading field notes after a long day. Keres looked up at him, unsure of what he was going to say next. That unpredictability was scary; she wasn't even picking up his thoughts on the matter.

"I could say no, and maybe you'd let me leave or maybe you'd ravage me like I took out those lamb chops earlier. Hell, maybe you'd kill me for knowing too much and not helping. But that'd be it, probably," he said. "If I say yes, then my life changes drastically. And it already has. Okay. I've made my decision."

Keres straightened up one more time.

--Please state your decision.

-- I, Timothy Jones, freelance journalist, agree to your terms fully and without reservation. Fuck it, let's get weird.

--The pact has been sealed. The contract is law.

A sound like a gavel clapping against a judge's bannister rang through the parlor. Keres fully slumped forward in such a way as to concern Tim. He got up and walked over to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. It felt like touching tightly-coiled steel wires. "Are you okay, Keres?" He said.

The feral look on her face when she raised her head to meet him said everything he needed to know.

***

Tim stood naked on the chateau bedroom balcony smoking a cigarette. His body thrummed with exertion and kinetic energy. He had just fucked - or been fucked by - the absolute most beautiful woman in the world, and it was like he brought a plastic knife to a nuclear war. Looking out over the Bayeux countryside, lit by the moon as it was, he feared he wouldn't last 14 days of this shit, much less multiple times per day.

Keres was ravenous. The first round, she hadn't needed to say anything or release any hormones or whatever to get him hard. They ran to the bedroom together, ripped off each other's clothes, and proceeded to fuck each other silly for a solid 20 minutes. Tim had discovered the dreamy softness and springiness of her ass and tits, and she'd discovered the power of his "average-yet-unique" seven-inch dick, as she described it. "All penises are different, and some are better at pleasuring than others," she said. "Yours is... hehehe... trés bien."

Following round three, Tim discovered that there was no limit to the number of times Keres could squirt in a row. "I lost count like an hour ago," he said in between gasps for air. She just smiled at him, no worse for wear.

After round ten, Tim had figured out what the pheromones were really useful for: reviving dead cocks. He swore he was unable to get hard anymore, that it was just physically impossible, no more fucking could happen tonight--and all Keres had to do was whisper, "Oh really?" to his empty balls and it was like someone had connected a fire hose to his batter-factories. When he came inside her that time, he felt the impact of each shot slamming into her cervical walls. The orgasm felt violent for him as well, and he was beginning to see stars.

By that time it was nearly 3:30 in the morning, and they had appointments to keep tomorrow. Seemingly no closer to being satiated and only slightly out of breath, Keres finally said, "I think that's enough for now."

That was when Tim had stumbled onto the balcony for one last smoke before bed. They'd fucked for almost six hours. He'd never fucked that hard or long before. He looked back into the bedroom. Keres was turned away from him, her massive bare ass out for all to see. He didn't know if she was already asleep, but she looked peaceful nevertheless. And god, she was beautiful. He pulled one last drag off his cig and flicked it off the balcony.

When he got back into bed and turned the light off, Keres turned over to him and laid her hand and head on his bare chest.

"Thank you for accepting me," she said. "Thank you for agreeing to stay."

"Oh, er, yeah, no problem," Tim said. "It was weird. I did consider leaving. But... there's just... something about this whole situation that I don't think I could ever explain to anyone if I'd just left it lie. It's against my journalistic instincts to leave a story rotting on the vine."

"Hmmm, hehe." Keres didn't say anything else; she just wrapped her leg around his leg and made idle circles in his thin scrum of chest hair. He could feel her pussy still pounding with need, but neither of them escalated further. In no time, Keres and Tim fell into deep sleep.