Once...

by James Herbert

  Her lips did not linger: they descended slowly to his chest, taking each of his nipples in turn, dampening them, tensing them with her tongue, kissing them, making them engorged, before moving on, sinking to the firm muscles of his belly, leaving a trail of slickness in their wake, then downwards again, tongue dipping into the tangle of hair before finding the base of the penis that waited so impatiently.

  And she did not stop there. Her lips and tongue were gliding up the long, smooth shaft, making it wet, making it throb, taking time, teasing but pleasing, until her mouth was at the tip. A beat. Anticipation screaming. Another beat. And then she took him in her mouth, into a hot cavern that was velvet at the edges and hard inside the entrance with teeth that caught his skin, but gently, never gripping, never biting. And the delight of her tongue when it closed on him to lap at his sticky flow, then around the shaft, coating it with her saliva, drawing on it, pushing against it, repeating the process, her mouth taking him in almost to the hilt, her throat accommodating, creating a sensation he had never before experienced, a swallowing of him he had never thought possible. His body arched, his shoulders burrowed into the soft earth, grass tickled his spine; but she rode him, never losing her precious hold, her mouth constantly working, a hand finding his genitals, cupping them gently, her middle finger finding his perineum, exerting easy pressure, heightening his pleasure and his desire for her, before moving on to the orifice behind. There her fingertip played around the sensitive edges, making him moan out loud. He gripped her breasts and it took self-control not to squeeze them hard; instead he kneaded them, drew out the long nipples from their dark surrounds, this time causing her to draw in a sharp gasp, before murmuring her own pleasure, for a moment losing him, but quickly swallowing him again to continue the strokes that were now becoming tighter, faster, fluids inside him racing to his centre where they seemed to boil as if in a cauldron; his hands left her breasts to grab her upper arms, so that he could control the rhythm, so that he could prolong the rapture . . .

  And all the while she watched him, watched his head thrash from side to side, his eyes closed in bliss, watched his chest heave and sink, his skin sheened with sweat, watched him while his hips thrust against her, and never once losing him, the finger beneath him now probing, gently entering so that there was no pain, only sensual delight.

  His movement slowed, but hers did not; his hips squirmed and thrust upwards, but she maintained her hold. His body was becoming rigid, a long moan escaping his open mouth, and she knew the signs and made ready for what was to follow.

  He could no longer bear to contain the flood. He needed release, needed the final exultation. And it was not too far away . . .

  His member was like iron between her lips, inside her throat and still she worked, still her smooth action was relentless as she awaited the liberation of all those boiling fluids. She even tightened her velvet grip and increased the friction. She plunged with her finger, deeper into his anus, so that all his muscles spasmed, every part of him became taut . . . yet out of control . . .

  And then he was in the euphoria of release and he spilled into her mouth. He cried out with the exhilaration and his eyelids sprung open so that he saw . . .

  So that he saw the fiend squatting between his legs, its great humped back bent over his groin, thick, enormous lips around his penis, massive head jerking erratically as it drained him of his semen.

  THOM SCREAMED and pulled away, scrabbling to the top of the bed and crouching there, legs drawn up, a shoulder against the headboard. It couldn’t be happening! He had to be dreaming this! But no nightmare could be as clear and as real. Nor as terrifying, for the mind has its own way of protecting itself, even in sleep, and he would surely have wakened if this had been a dream.

  The monster, deprived of its prey, slowly looked up at Thom, its huge head scrunched between crooked shoulders, Thom’s semen drooling from its thick grinning lips.

  ‘No . . .!’ Thom screamed, as if denial would make the thing go away. ‘No!’ he screamed again.

  There was no soul behind its bulging black eyes.

  Wood cracked as Thom pressed harder against the headboard. His feet dug troughs in the undersheet.

  It was not a big creature, for although it squatted on the end of the bed, knees almost up to its scabrous chin, back arched in a great hump, it was easy to tell it would stand no more than three to four feet when upright (if it could stand upright); but its dark unclean body rippled with muscles and thick sinews. Its baleful eyes still on Thom, it reached for a beaker lying close by on the bed and held it up to its chin. It allowed the creamy fluid in its mouth to drip into the container, spitting to force every last drop from its lips, finally hawking to clear the stuff from its throat.

  Then it appraised Thom, its open-mouthed leer revealing dozens of small, glistening, yellow, pointed teeth, four rows of them set in its upper and lower jaws. Without taking its black eyes off the horrified figure of Thom, who was trying to push through the headboard itself, the creature sealed the beaker with a matching cap. It twisted the lid tight.

  Satisfied, it began to crawl towards Thom, its prize held close to its barrel chest.

  ‘Keep away!’ cried Thom, turning his face away from the advancing beast but with his eyes still riveted to it in a sideways stare. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t real, that he was dreaming, but it was no use – he felt the wood splintering under his weight, he could smell the creature’s rancid odour as it drew closer, and he could see with fine definition every hair on its ponderous, monstrous body, every furrow in its enormous slanted forehead, every glint on its rows of pointed teeth. And he could hear every snuffling grunt it made.

  Whether it was some kind of animal of simian origins, or a human mutant, he had no way of knowing – nor did he care at that particular moment; all he knew was that this ugly, frightening thing was of evil intent and he was to be the victim.

  Naked, he sprang from the bed just as the beast reached out with its free – hand? paw? – to catch his ankle, and his legs became tangled in the bedsheet so that he lost balance and tumbled into a corner created by the end of the sideboard and the angled wall. His head cracked against stone, almost knocking him unconscious; only the adrenaline pumping through him – and of course, the terrible fear – kept him moving. Groggy from the bump, Thom pushed himself to his feet, kicking his legs free of the sheet, one hand on the sideboard, the other on the windowsill, both props helping him remain upright. His eyes cleared and he looked back at the rumpled bed.

  The creature – the ape, the mutant, the terrifying bloody thing! – was squatting on the edge, so close, so very close, no more than four feet away, and it was . . . grinning? Could it be described as a grin, or was it just its natural – unnatural – countenance? Whatever the answer, it was looking at him with big prominent soulless eyes, bright moonlight from the open window reflected in both. And it was grinning, Thom was certain now, and it was a kind of . . . kind of . . . lewd grin, a kind of licentious grin, and its lips were shiny with the residue of Thom’s semen.

  It raised its head as it watched him and Thom noticed it had short, pointed ears. He also noticed that its great barrel chest came to hairy points, as if the creature had breasts. Good God, was this the female of whatever weird species it sprang from?

  Beaker clutched between its tapered breasts, a leer stretching its thick, slimy lips, the thing remained perfectly still on the edge of the bed.

  But then it began to tremble as if a huge rage were building inside. Its pitchy black eyes began to glare; its hair began to bristle; a snarling growl began to rise from somewhere deep in its throat.

  Thom could only cower in the corner, one arm raised across his face, his body paralysed by fear.

  It shuffled on its haunches, as if making ready to leap at him. Thom wanted to move, he tried to move, but it seemed that his limbs were locked, that all power, all mobility had been drained from him, as if his lost semen had taken his strength with it. He found that, such
was the stupefying fear, he could not even cry out any more. If only he could at least close his eyes against the horror . . .

  The thing on the bed bunched its muscles, steadying itself. Its great multi-toothed mouth yawned wide.

  But then another peculiar sight.

  Through the open doorway to the spiral staircase there came a long, vertical . . . stick? Rod? Lance? What the hell was it?

  For two seconds, perhaps more, Thom watched it dance closer in the bright moonlight, the lower end obscured by the side of the bed.

  The creature’s prominent eyes were too intent on its prey to notice. That is, until the length of wood whacked its head, a weird little helium voice screeching at the same time:

  ‘Begonesuccubusbegone!’

  The crack echoed all around the room, bouncing off the angled walls with a resonance whose sharpness was motivating for both man and beast.

  The creature yowled as its large head dived further into its hunched shoulders, while Thom escaped his paralysis and leapt to his feet. Only then did he see the little head on the other side of the bed.

  If the beast was the most awful thing that Thom Kindred had ever seen, then the tiny creature to whom the little head belonged was the most curious. Its tiny hands held the brush end of the broom firmly in their grip (the broom staff was like a great pole to this thing that was even too small to be a midget) as repeatedly it thwacked Thom’s attacker over its gross-shaped head and shoulders, running around the bed as it did so, breaking off only to avoid the tall, corner bedpost.

  It was then, when it paused briefly, that Thom saw it more clearly. It had a roundish face with a pointed chin and long pointed ears that stuck out from beneath a floppy brown cap. It was impossible to tell its skin colouring in the moonlight’s bleaching, but it looked like tanned leather, and its eyes were tilted, almost Chinese-looking. Its sharp chin was beardless, but long black straggles of hair hung down from the rim of the cap, separating over the ears and dropping below to a long thin neck. A muddy-green tight-fitting coat covered its body, while knee breeches and stockings of a roughish material covered its short and very skinny legs. Thom was still unable to see its feet, for the little man – it seemed to be a man – was partially hidden by the end of the bed.

  ‘Begonebegone!’

  At least that was what its high-pitched cry seemed to be as it resumed its beating of the monster, which held up its arms to deflect the blows, yowling as it did so. Now the victim, the beast glared from Thom to the tiny man, and then back to Thom again.

  ‘Getawaygetaway!’

  It took a moment for Thom to realize his rescuer was calling to him now, the strange-sounding words all rolled into one. Instinct took over and he ducked around the corner of the sideboard, putting distance between himself and the cowering beast on the bed. But even as he did so, it reached a great paw and raked Thom’s cheek with what felt like sharp claws. He uttered a cry at the sudden searing pain, but nevertheless kept moving, grabbing his jeans from the settle as he went, his nakedness only increasing his sense of vulnerability. As the little man – Thom could now see it/he was wearing boots with ridiculously long pointed toes – continued to distract the beast, he did a kind of backwards hopping shuffle, pulling up one leg as he went.

  ‘Getoutsuccubus!’

  The words somehow were plainer, but hardly made sense. Succubus?

  The beast suddenly backed off, loping to the far end of the bed, where it sank to its haunches, cradling the beaker between its ugly breasts. It began to tense itself, its hair bristling, knotted muscles undulating, and Thom realized it was going to attack him again. It now seemed enraged by the unexpected assault and the deflection from its purpose, for it twisted its neckless head, waving it to and fro, shoulders moving in rhythm, and it yowled once more into the night and bellowed its wrath.

  Streaking down the length of the bed, it launched itself at Thom who, both legs now in the jeans, ducked. The beast, hoisted by powerful leg muscles, sailed over his head to smash into the broad, stone fireplace behind. It screeched as it landed in a flurry of hump and limbs in the hearth below, and went on screeching as it scrabbled around trying to pick itself up. Meanwhile the beaker had fallen to the floor and was lying on its side.

  ‘Thegobletthegobletthegoblet!’

  Thom, on his knees and still trying to button his jeans, heard the strange little man’s shouts, but couldn’t understand their meaning.

  Clutching the giant broom by its handle, the pint-sized defender hobbled over to Thom. He stared squarely into Thom’s face and deliberately drew out the words.

  ‘Get-the-goblet!’

  His voice was like a slowed-down tape, for it became deeper, had more timbre.

  ‘Get-the-goblet.’

  Fear somehow numbed by the craziness of it all, Thom reacted. At once he had buttoned the jeans and was stretching his other hand towards the beaker – the goblet – whose contents were slowly seeping out on to the rug in front of the hearth. He managed to snatch it just before the creature tried to rake him with its claws again. Thom fell back against the end of the bed and for long moments, he and the beast stared at each other.

  The diminutive man suddenly appeared between them, facing the crouching beast, the broom held across his tiny chest like a pikestaff. From behind, Thom could see that his narrow shoulders were trembling with fright.

  Thom pushed himself to one knee, the knuckles of one hand against the floorboards for support, the other clutching the beaker. He expected the beast to rush at him.

  But instead it ignored both Thom and his tiny champion, and began lapping at the spilled drool of semen as though it were cream. It did not appear to swallow.

  ‘Getyisselfdownstairs.’

  At first, Thom did not realize the little man was instructing him, for his eyes were still on the beast. The words, all rolled into one as they were, were difficult to understand as well.

  ‘Get-yisself-downstairs.’ He was told again, this time more slowly, the voice deeper as before.

  Thom understood, but as he rose to tower over his pint-sized protector, so the beast slowly looked up from its lapping.

  ‘Run!’

  It was a high-pitched squeal and it came from the little man, but the meaning was very plain to Thom this time. He scooted for the door.

  As he passed through the opening to be immersed in the deep shadows of the landing, he heard a shriek from behind, but still he did not stop. Moonlight shone through the stairway’s only window, lighting his way as he hurried down. He heard a scuffling from behind.

  So sure-footed was he as he rounded the stairs, one hand brushing against the central column, it was as if he had never been away. He could have been a small boy again, awakened by a nightmare, running down to seek comfort from his mother. Even the creaks and cracks of the stair-boards were familiar to him, and his fingertips on the newel post found old grooves and grains that he still remembered. For one mad moment – if anything else could be madder than the insanity just transpired – he was that boy again, and he believed in things that he had long forgotten, things that he had been told by Bethan, things that he had seen for himself! Faeries and elves and things. Magical creatures that faded from memory when he moved away and grew older. Creatures that no adult would – could – ever believe in. Not unless they were special, his mother had once told him. But even then, she had never spoken of monsters, had never frightened him with such tales. So why this beast in his bedroom now? Why this ugly, grotesque, semen-guzzling monster that was on the landing and about to chase after him? Was this all a dream? The throbbing of his cheek where the beast – the succubus – had slashed him told him otherwise. And he could feel his bare feet on the stairs, could feel the roughness of the wooden newel beneath his fingertips. And he could hear the beast following him. He could hear its snuffling and its snarls. No dream could ever be this real.

  He did not stop when he reached the open kitchen door, but ran straight through into the moonlit room, putting the centre
table between himself and the thing that was following.

  He fell back against the refrigerator and its motor unit inside hummed as if nudged into action. His chest was heaving, his hands, one still holding on to the beaker, were shaking, and his eyes were wide with terror. The thing was a dark shape in the doorway.

  It had come to a halt, as if it knew the prey was trapped. Why Thom had not run through the front door, which was wide open, and into the woods beyond, Thom did not know himself. Perhaps he feared the woods themselves, perhaps he was afraid of being chased through the concealing darkness there, with trees and thickets set to hinder him. The cottage was his sanctuary, the one true place of safety. He could hear the beast snorting, shuffling its clawed feet. The snorting became a snarling again, the snarling became a screeching. And the monster began to lumber around the table after him.

  Thom waited until the last moment before swinging the fridge door open with all his might.

  It crashed into the beast, stopping it in its tracks for a moment, and Thom ran off in the opposite direction.

  Thom stayed on the other side of the table, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. The creature was too strong and too vicious to fight and Thom didn’t give much for his chances out there in the woods. In the kitchen he might at least find something with which to fight this thing. If he could reach one of the carving knives in the drawer . . . on the other side of the kitchen . . . where the beast, stunned by the fridge door, was just pulling itself up, one horrible clawed paw on the back of a kitchen chair.

  It was all so lucid in the moonlight that streamed through the kitchen’s many windows, all so clear and real and all so nightmarishly unreal. The table, with its fruit bowl and oddments, the shelving filled with crockery, the units and sink, the crammed bookshelves – all so clear and all so ordinary, so commonplace. But the stunted creature just rising into view, the guttural sounds of its grunts and snarls – that was what the nightmare was made of.