A Succubus For Christmas

by M. E. Hydra

  Fuck, that felt fucking good.

  The cushioned hoop of the opening felt like strong legs wrapped around his buttocks, driving him on. She wrapped her arms around his upper body and drew him close for another passionate kiss. Her midriff moved sinuously against his as he thrust in and out of the honeyed well in her inner wall.

  He was still kissing her when he opened one eye and saw the tangle of vines that suspended her were trembling with some kind of internal tension. He watched as the walls of the vine swelled and the swelling passed downwards. A warm sticky liquid welled up between his toes and lapped at the top of his feet.

  “What's this?” Fowler asked, apprehensive. Chris's comments about carnivorous plants and the unwelcome image of his legs being eaten away by acid entered his mind.

  “You're making me wet,” the girl said. “My juices will heighten your pleasure.”

  More bulges ran down the vine as she pumped more liquid into her pitcher. It rose up past Fowler's calves and then above his knees.

  “I hope you're not trying to digest me,” he said, smiling as he put his arms around her body.

  He didn't feel worried. If it was acid he'd feel pain or a loss of feeling. Instead the liquid seemed to magnify his sense of touch as it bathed his skin.

  “Fuck!” Fowler exclaimed.

  The liquid had reached and enveloped his balls. The tingling sensation sank right into his sac and sent pleasurable sparks ricocheting through his nerves.

  The girl smiled and continued to caress his shoulders.

  That felt...Fowler didn't have words to describe how good that felt.

  This was pure fucking heaven. He lay back and relaxed in her embrace. He let the gentle contractions and relaxations of her opening languorously dip his cock back and forth into the squelchy honey of her internal vagina. His thrusts set the liquids of the pitcher in motion and he basked in the feeling of the warm currents swirling through his legs and tickling his balls.

  Meanwhile her hands, breasts and soft lips were driving his upper body crazy. Lost soul from hell? Fuck that. She felt like an angel from heaven to Fowler.

  Chris was the biggest muppet in the world for walking away from this.

  He wondered how Terry and Miller were getting on. He looked around.

  Miller's girl was really fucking lively. He spotted them as they hung in the darkness a few metres away. Her pitcher was pulsating like crazy and he could see Miller pistoning in and out of her through the movements of his back. Her hands were hooked around him and clawing his flesh in ecstasy.

  Jammy bas…tard?

  The girl and Miller slowly span until Miller was facing him. Miller was sheet white and absolutely terrified.

  Help me, he mouthed.

  What the fuck?

  Then Fowler noticed the bulges in the vines. They were travelling upwards not downwards.

  He turned to where Terry lay in the embrace of another girl. Terry's upper body lay slumped against her as her pitcher gently pulsed around Terry's lower body. The girl looked over Terry's shoulder right at him and smiled.

  He watched as Terry's body jerked with each pulsation of her pitcher and a bulge travelled upwards. Then he realised in horror Terry's body was shrinking. It was deflating like a balloon.

  What the fuck!

  “My sisters are feeding and it's time for me to join them,” his girl whispered in his ear.

  No fucking way!

  Fowler tried to climb out of her. His feet thrashed, but he couldn't get any purchase on her slippery inner walls. His legs just slid and slipped. He tried to grip the sides of the opening, but they'd also exuded some kind of slippery mucus and his hands kept slipping.

  “Let me fucking go!” Fowler shouted.

  The fluid in her pitcher was thick and tired out his legs quickly as he kicked and thrashed within it. The pitcher expanded, becoming a little deeper and Fowler dropped within it until his head was level with her breasts. His hands slipped on the opening and were pinioned against his hips as the cushioned hoop closed tight around his body.

  “Your struggles are futile, little fly,” the girl said. “You can't escape my trap. Relax and let pleasure take you.”

  What was she doing?

  Within her pitcher his cock was gripped by a powerful suction. It was drawn back into the honey-filled channel, only this time the orifice had come alive and the soft walls gently throbbed against his cock.

  And why did it feel so good?

  She put her arms around the back of his head and smothered his face in the lush cleavage between her breasts. The walls of her pitcher gently pulsed, driving his cock deeper into her vaginal opening and swirling the fluids to massage his buttocks and legs.

  “Your pleasure will feed me,” she said, cradling his head between her breasts.

  Was she trying to eat him or fuck him?

  The pitcher pulsed and her vaginal orifice throbbed pleasurably around his cock.

  It felt more like...ooo...fucking.

  The warm liquid in her pitcher massaged his balls with gentle fingers. The contractions of the opening thrust him in and out of an orifice that gently milked his cock. She was steadily taking his body to orgasm and he was powerless to resist.

  Oh fuck, he was going to come.

  She sensed his body's impending orgasm and the pulsating motions of her pitcher grew deeper and slower. Her vaginal orifice sucked a little harder at his cock each time her motions pulled him away.

  Oh fuck, he couldn't hold back any more. He was going to...he was…

  She knew. Her pitcher contracted driving his cock so deep into her vaginal opening he felt the head pass through into a sticky chamber with stretchy walls. She held him there, milking the entire length of his cock with expert pulses as he explosively came in a shuddering orgasm that spurted gout after gout of sperm into her.

  The aftermath left Fowler feeling weak and drained. It felt like the orgasm had ripped out a piece of him with it.

  “Look,” the girl said, tilting his head upwards. “Your pleasure feeds me.”

  Fowler watched as a bulge travelled up the vine. It was more than just his semen, he realised. It was a piece of him, gone, sucked up and travelling away from him.

  Give it back, he thought forlornly.

  “And that is just the first taste,” she smiled.

  Her hands delicately caressed his back. The pitcher began to pulsate again. He felt his cock thrust back and forth into her sticky passage. Her fluids swirled, massaging and caressing his balls.

  She was steering his body irresistibly to another orgasm.

  “Look...aah…” Fowler said.

  She pulled him close and the head of his cock once again spurted explosively into that sticky chamber as skilled vibrations throbbed along its length. Another bulge passed up the vine leaving Fowler feeling weaker as he felt another piece sucked from him.

  “We must be able to cut a deal,” he pleaded.

  Miller was a hollowed out husk and he couldn't see any sign of Terry.

  The girl gently raked his back with her fingernails. The fleshy hoop contracted around him and the pulsations started again within the pitcher.

  “I have money. I can give you plenty of money.”

  The girl ignored him. She pulled his cock into her sticky chamber and milked another load of cum and essence from his body. A third bulge passed up the vine.

  “Power. Influence. I have connections. I can get you whatever you want,” Fowler begged.

  The girl gently twirled her fingers through his hair. Her pitcher continued its remorseless pulsations, the stroking motions of her vaginal opening rapidly bringing him to a fourth orgasm.

  “What do you want!” Fowler pleaded, seeing a fourth piece of him travel up the vine and into the darkness.

  “Shh,” the girl said, putting a pale finger against his lips. “I want only to give you pleasure.”

  One arm hooked around the back of his head as she pulled his face into her soft cleavage. Her other hand
tickled down the back of his spine. The hoop of her opening contracted tight, holding Fowler's body rigid against her embrace. His cock was forced deeper inside the sticky chamber at the back of her pitcher and this time she didn't release it.

  Slow, strong contractions went through the pitcher and throbbed along his cock. He spurted uncontrollably into the sticky chamber and felt the elastic walls expand outwards, sucking out more of his cum and life force.

  The chamber contracted and pushed another bulge up the vine.

  Fowler had pause only for a breath before the chamber was expanding again while she resumed milking his cock.

  Fowler felt light-headed. His skin felt slack on his body as he felt his muscles shrivel and waste away beneath it.

  How the fuck could this happen to him?

  His cock spurted again, filling her chamber as she continued to suck out all his life through one ecstatic orgasm after another.

  He felt his body shrivel and waste in her embrace.

  “Please,” he begged through dried up lips.

  “Time to squeeze out the last few drops of pleasure,” she sighed.

  The cushioned hoop of the opening gripped the sides of his wasted body and slowly gulped him down into the pitcher. His last sight was the perfect beauty of her face as the opening closed shut above him.

  A figure could be seen weakly struggling within her closed pitcher. The walls contracted once, twice, three times. The struggles ceased. Three bulges, larger than the others, travelled up the vine.

  The girl gave an unearthly sigh and closed her eyes in contentment.

  * * * *

  “I couldn't go through with it,” Chris said to the taxi driver as he walked towards the exit. “The other guys might be getting the fuck of their life right now, but...I don't know, it just seemed wrong.

  “I mean lost souls from hell that look like girls crossed with pitcher plants. That's too fucking weird for me.

  “I bet you've heard all this before. Other guys must have backed out. Right?”

  Chris turned back to the taxi driver, just in time to see the man swing a thick metal pole at his head. His eyes widened in horror and then the pole connected, shattering his skull. His body fell to the floor and twitched spasmodically.

  “Would have been better for you had you got in one of those pitchers,” the taxi driver muttered. “At least your last moments would have been filled with pleasure.”

  He picked up the ankles and dragged the twitching body away.

  His precious girls always had a need for fresh compost.

  Hookah'ed

  Koontz was a useless decadent fat fuck, Bachman decided as he slipped out of his room in the dark hours of the morning. How the greasy slab of lard had ever gained control over the west side was a mystery to him.

  Well it wouldn't be a mystery for long, Bachman thought as he checked the corridor outside.

  It was empty. Bachman wasn't surprised. Security was a joke. He hadn't seen a guard since he'd left his car and been shown into the building. At the door he'd been greeted by Koontz personally. It had taken nearly all of Bachman's composure not to laugh out loud. Koontz was short, pudgy and had the pasty complexion of someone who hadn't been on speaking terms with the sun for years. Even though it was evening he was wearing shades with glittery gold frames and nothing else other than red silk pyjamas. He looked like the bastard offspring of Hugh Heffner and Ozzy Osbourne. The image was completed by the two Penthouse Pet wannabes dangling off either arm.

  This was the man that supposedly controlled the whole of the west side?

  For a man in his position Koontz was either supremely confident or insanely blasé. Every person Bachman had encountered in the business had no illusions about what needed to be done to stay in the business. When you met them on their turf you could guarantee there'd be a guy round every corner with a gun tucked in their jacket. These were dangerous times, with a lot of desperate punks willing to go to extreme measures to make a name for themselves.

  While other bosses had turned their homes into fortresses Koontz had turned his into the Playboy mansion. Instead of guards the place was full of ho's. Sure they looked hot, Bachman had thought as they'd brought him drinks during the lavish dinner, just like they'd stepped off a Vegas stage, but he doubted they'd be much use should any of Koontz's guests suddenly break out an uzi and start spraying.

  Not that Bachman was complaining too much. It made his job a lot easier.

  Carlito Estevez had hired Bachman because the boss was in a slight bit of trouble. One of his underlings had fucked up and allowed sensitive information to fall into the wrong hands. Things were about to get very hot for Estevez and the boss had decided he needed some leverage.

  It was common knowledge that Koontz had dirt on just about everyone. Estevez needed that dirt so he could persuade some of the corrupt bastards in city hall to call off the attack dogs. Koontz claimed he didn't have it. Estevez didn't believe him and had called in Bachman to take it.

  Loud grunts and sighs came from behind the last door on the corridor. One of Koontz's guests was taking advantage of the hospitality.

  The same hospitality had been offered to Bachman, but he'd turned it down. The girl was hot, but he was here on business.

  Koontz threw regular events like these for well-connected guys in the organisations. A gesture to keep everything smooth as he described it. It had been easy enough for Carlito to slip Bachman on the guest list as the new guy in town.

  Bachman had been incredulous it had been that simple, but now, walking around a pleasure palace with what appeared to be zero security, the surprise had worn off. Koontz must have rotted his brain with too much coke. Maybe he really believed that everybody get along peace crap. The hippy godfather.

  The private chambers were even more sumptuous than the rest of the mansion. Koontz was a man who'd indulged expensive tastes in fine arts. Well he probably called it fine arts. The sculptures and paintings of naked chicks Bachman saw only provided further proof to him that pornography was the second oldest profession.

  The stuff Koontz kept to himself was way more of the mondo bizarro type. In one of the rooms a wall was taken up with a painting showing three freaky demon chicks laying into some Jesus clone with whips. The artist had some serious repression issues as far as Bachman could tell. A damn fine idea of the female body though, even if he'd kind of spoiled it with the horns and bat wings.

  Freaky.

  Ozzy Osbourne meets Hugh Hefner as Bachman had originally thought. Maybe Koontz got his jollies dressing up in robes and playing at being cult leader with his harem of ho's.

  Apparently Koontz kept most of his files scattered around the house for convenient access. The information Bachman was after was supposedly in a small safe hidden in one of the private bedrooms.

  Unfortunately, the room was occupied.

  The description Bachman had been given seemed accurate enough. The room looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. Silks were suspended from the ceiling and walls to make the room look like a tent and soft cushions were scattered everywhere. A soft orange light bathed everything in a warm glow. The safe was supposedly disguised as a gold chest and bolted to the floor.

  Bachman saw it in the far corner and was advancing into the room when a bubbling noise suddenly made him freeze. It was the kind of sound you might hear from a water cooler after getting a drink.

  Just around the door was a giant, highly ornate hookah. It sat on a low table on three golden legs. Lounging on cushions on either side of it and holding a pipe each were two naked girls.

  Sloppy, Bachman cursed. The lack of security had made him too casual.

  There was no response though. The girls didn't cry out or even acknowledge he was in the room.

  Was this his lucky night?

  Cautiously, Bachman walked towards them. Still no response.

  They were asleep. No, more than asleep, stoned. Completely and utterly stoned out of their minds. Whatever was in their giant b
ong, it was some pretty potent stuff.

  Bachman's tenseness evaporated. He almost laughed.

  There was a strong musky odour in the air, like an exotic perfume although Bachman didn't recognise the brand. He wondered if it was the remnants of whatever the girls had been toking on. It tickled the nostrils and Bachman was surprised to find he felt quite aroused.

  That was probably the naked girls though. They really were stunning, with long lithe legs, smooth dusky skin and ripe full breasts. The girl on the left was a golden blonde while the other had jet-black hair that cascaded around her shoulders in tight ringlets. They were naked apart from some delicate golden chains around their necks, wrists and ankles. The heady aroma filling the air around Bachman coupled with the sight of their perfectly shaven pussies filled his mind with a few less than pure thoughts.

  They were completely unconscious and helpless before him.

  Business before pleasure, Bachman thought.

  He was about to turn towards the chest when he noticed a small key hanging from one of the chains around the raven-haired girl's neck.

  Surely not, Bachman thought, turning to glance back at the chest. It was all too easy.

  He bent over the girl to examine it further and tried not to think about planting a kiss on her pouting full red lips. Slowly, he reached towards the soft chasm between her breasts to carefully lift the small golden key.

  The girl's empty eyes suddenly flickered into life and locked on Bachman. Her full lips twisted up into a smile and then pouted suggestively as she blew a cloud of smoke into Bachman's face.

  Bachman was too stunned to react as the smoke twined into his nostrils. His senses were flooded with a spicy sweet aroma, the same traces of the perfume he'd picked up earlier, but many times stronger. All of a sudden his head felt a little warm and fuzzy–like it was wrapped in cotton wool–and his sense of balance deserted him. He found himself falling forwards onto the deep pile of soft cushions and couldn't prevent himself.