“Yeah, that’s right!” He kept yelling as he zigzagged and sidestepped, gaining more and more succubus attention. “I got gallons to spare, ladies, right here on tap!”
They surged at him in a rolling, roiling wave. Spence backpedaled—shit, they were fast!—and had a moment where he almost fell—that would have been it, fucked for sure—but then regained his footing and managed to set a pretty decent backwards pace, still waving his dick at them.
“Check it,” he whooped to the others. “Pied Piper of Cumsluts!”
Crazy as fuck, but it was working. They were following him. Not all, but enough to let a bedraggled and shocked-looking Marty extricate himself—yeah, they were probably all bound for the loony bin after this, this was beyond, just fuckin’ beyond.
He squeezed out a few pre-drops, which sent them into a total frenzy, totally steamrollering and bulldozing each other to be first to the goods. Making moist, smoochy-slurpy noises, they lapped and vacuumed up their prize.
“Here goes!” Spencer shouted. “Cummin’ to the rescue!”
No need to be discreet; he let fly in a wide, spattering arc. They went wilder than teen girls at a boy-band concert, but he right away saw that it wouldn’t be enough. He hadn’t gone limp—if anything was harder than ever—but he didn’t know how long he could keep it, so to fuckin’ speak, up.
Dev ran to help Marty. Jake ran to join Spencer.
“That was terrible, bro.”
“Got a better idea?”
“No.”
They got a system going, world’s most fucked-up relay race, track and field in the Jackoff Olympics, going for the gold, U-S-A! U-S-A! With him and Jake trotting backwards, trying to spurt and splash and scatter a trail of distraction, while Dev and Marty forged ahead with their phones.
Spence threw Jake a sidelong look. “Can you fuckin’ believe this shit?”
“No,” Jake said, missing neither stride nor stroke.
“Maybe we’re dreaming,” said Devon.
“Or trippin’ balls,” Spence suggested.
“We’re crazy,” Marty said.
Somehow, crazy or dreaming or trippin’ balls, they finally gained enough ground—or spread enough distraction—to leave their pursuers far enough behind that he and Jake could put their dicks away and face forward.
Not that they knew where the hell they were. It was a clusterfuck of the first order. Those things were breeding down here, they had built a fuckin’ lair down here, that one room had been some kind of anthill-in-progress, a slug-blob beaver den or wasp’s nest or something.
“What do we do?” Devon asked, after a minute or so.
They’d slowed to a walk and gone back to minimal phone-light to save batteries—still no fuckin’ bars or signal, of course.
“Keep your shit together,” Jake said.
“But there’s so many of them! What if they get out?”
“News flash, dude, they can already get out,” Marty said. “How else do you think they’ve been visiting us?”
“Maybe not just us,” Spencer said. “They’re that fuckin’ hungry, for all we know they’re visitin’ all over town.”
Horrified contemplation, while Dev and Jake in particular looked like they wanted to object, but that’d be some pie-in-the-sky level you-wish right there. Go big or go home; when a bunch of retards started fuckin’ around with demon-magic, what the fuck would you expect?
“Somebody would have said something...” Devon began, then trailed off.
Because yeah right, who? Said what? How long had it taken even the four of them to realize what was goin’ on, and they’d caused it. Anyone else might just be thinkin’ they got super-lucky, braggin’ about it at most, or havin’ themselves some crazy-ass wet dreams.
“Dude,” said Marty. “Dude, that’s…that’s so wrong.”
“Okay, guys, look,” said Jake. “We can deal with that later, okay? First, we have to get out of here.”
“And hey.” Spence shrugged. “Free epic blow-your-mind blowjobs; succubus suckfest, half of fuckin’ Fairmont should be thankin’ us!”
Jake nodded, as if trying to convince himself there was indeed a bright side. “Yeah…yeah, it could be worse…not as if they’re actually hurting anybody, right?”
“I guess.” The new kid didn’t sound very convinced.
Which of course was their goddamn cue to turn a corner and see a pair of splayed feet sticking out from an open door. Feet in grimy, grubby old shoes…attached to legs in grimy, grubby old pants…leading up to a…
Then, after at least two maybe three of them screamed like pussies—Spence hoped, but without much optimism, that he hadn’t been one—they were running again.
As they did, he caught a glimpse and yes-in-fuckin’-deed that was a body. A body, a corpse, a stiff in the other sense, the bucket been kicked, the farm been bought. All shriveled up and dry, sticklike scarecrow bundle of beef jerky, but for all that he was willing to bet it hadn’t been here mummified for five hundred years like King-fuckin-Tut; the stink was too ripe, fresh, and real for that.
Besides, it sure as shit looked like that one tall skinny bald fuck, the boss-man leader of the Shelter Park bum brigade, the one who’d tried to help Beth play peacekeeper when Spencer had been ready to rumble with that numbfuck bigmouth called Tater.
The next one sure as shit, even in the jittery flashes of phones, looked like the weirdo with the parka and the tinfoil hat. Stuck sprawl-propped against a wall all rotted teeth gaped mouth, not the well-chick from The Ring but the other one, the closet-chick, except instead of being slimy, he was dried out, eyeballs shriveled-up raisins in the bottoms of empty sockets.
Mummified and King-fuckin’-Tut, he’d been closer on that…the other mummy movie with the prim-sexy librarian babe and the cowboys who got all their fluids drained dry and hadn’t he just thought that, earlier, only half-joking, about Mart-O getting sucked to death?
Which was what must’ve happened to the bums, what with the way their Goodwill-reject pants were undone—there was the asshole who’d hit them up for dollars or smokes, and Jesus-fuck had they eaten his whole fuckin’ crotch? Spence had seen more meat left on a chicken carcass after one of Nana Nell’s Sunday suppers! But, bad as that was, somehow the bum’s dying O-face rictus was what was gonna haunt Spence’s dreams.
He heard the others reacting with more cries of shock and revulsion, and his own words—that’s what we been stickin’ our dicks in—came back to haunt him with a fuckin’ vengeance. How long until they ended up like that? Goddamn feeding frenzies and yeah maybe what a way to go but no thanks!
And then there was Tater.
Fuckin’ Tater, who’d cracked wiseass about Spence’s momma, but Tater would be crackin’ wiseass about nobody’s momma now, or anything else, ever again. Him and his just-say-no-drugs’re-bad-m’kay, for all the good that’d done him, the drunk ol’ fuck, draped faceup across an overturned filing cabinet with dead claw-hands and straggle-haired straggle-bearded head dangling.
If there was more to see, Spence didn’t wanna look. Because, if there was more to see, it might be fuckin’ Brendan, and douche-fuckstick or not, even he didn’t deserve endin’ up like that.
As for the rest of Fairmont, he had a feeling that blow-your-mind blowjobs thing wasn’t going to earn them any thanks after all. Once people found out who was responsible for…what, the succubus apocalypse? Good luck making a TV series, unless on HBO or some shit where they could show full-frontal every damn episode...
He realized his thoughts weren’t making a whole lot of sense, the adrenaline whipping through his system really stir-frying his brains. He also realized they were slowing, staggering to a halt, needing to stop before they just fuckin’ keeled over.
Devon was shaking. Jake kept twitching around to check every direction for the glimmering blue-green telltale signs of pursuit.
Marty, bent over with his hands on his knees, heaving for breath, managed to glance over at Spencer. Spence, who’d s
agged into a corner wondering if it was too late to start actually going to church or something, sort of half-grinned, expecting Mart-O to thank him for the save back there.
Instead, with a really sarcastic sneer, Mart-O was all, “Let’s summon a succubus, he said. It’ll be fun, he said.”
“Shut the fuck up!” retorted Spencer, indignant.
“You’re the fuck-up!”
Shit might’ve gone down then for real, but Jake intervened. “Both of you, shut up already!”
Interlude: Vignettes #6
Hey, that’s where we came in…back in the prologue at the beginning of the book!
We left it there, with the guys trying to escape from the underground lair, having discovered the problem is a whole lot worse than they’d realized.
But now, the rest of the story’s caught up to that point. You-the-reader probably have a pretty good idea of what’s going on. You may be speculating, even anxious, to see what happens next.
Which means this is the perfect place for another of these obnoxious goddamn Interludes!
***
But, first:
“Looks like some kind of secreted resin.”
“Yeah, but secreted from what?”
Hey, we were all thinking it.
And I’ll have you know, it was a dire struggle indeed not to have someone holler, “Get away from him, you bitch!” in the previous chapter. Or “they mostly come at night, mostly”…a “game over, man, game over!” may have sneaked into the book somewhere already; I’m not sure.
I mean, shit, it’s only about the most quotable movie in history. I’ll hardly deny there are certain derivative elements. Besides, what would you expect from a shameless fanfiction hack?
Onward!
***
Ah, the succubus.
People get all hung up on the sexy demon chick image, the psychic shape-shifter with nymphomania and telepathy, the veritable girl of your wet-dreams. Naked babes with cute little batwings, cute little horns, sinuous little tails. Slutty She-Devil Halloween costumes. They’re in the Monster Manual. Half a generation of nerdy guys first became aware of nipples that way.
Sexy, sexy demon chicks.
As our boys have learned, to their sorrow and peril, such isn’t exactly the case. The images are only that: images. Mirages, sensory hallucinations, mental illusions.
Jake was right about there being a pheromone component, but it can work as a contact agent as well. Particularly when the more sensitive body parts or delicate mucous membranes are involved.
We’ve all heard of those colorful little frogs whose skin seeps psychedelic toxins. Pufferfish and other weird sea creatures release nerve toxins; our clever friends the dolphins have even figured out how to use measured doses of the stuff to get high.
Remember we were talking about mermaids earlier? Hey, maybe there’s something to those ancient mariner tales beyond sunstroke, sea-blindness, scurvy and rum. Mermaids…sirens…definitely a siren-like quality to our demons here, too.
Mainly, though, they’re like bees.
Succubus-bees.
Succubees? No, that’s stupid. Sounds like a bad restaurant venture, Hooters trying to go somewhat upscale.
The correct plural would be succubi. From the Latin, by the way; look at us learning more about languages and linguistics and philology and stuff. This book’s just all kinds of educational, isn’t it?
***
As for Llylth, the lush and lovely seductive Hellslayer demon-queen, well, what do you want? She’s a video game character. Over-the-top voluptuous boob physics and absurdly revealing outfits go with the territory. Especially for the wicked temptresses.
Vampirella, for example…her costume, what there is of it, was designed to be so skimpy and utterly naughty there was no possible way anybody could argue she wasn’t full-bore evil. That was back in the late 1960s.
Soon, though, it wasn’t just the villainesses, femme fatales, and dirty bad girls. Soon, even the heroines were dressing to thrill. You know what they had to do? They had to go back and try to find ways to make Vampirella’s outfit even sluttier.
We’ve had chainmail bikinis and boob windows and Mystique in body paint. Yeah, I would have preferred her in the white gown with the skull belt, but I also would have preferred flirty swashbuckler Nightcrawler, and anyway that’s not the point…the point is, the people who argue how it makes sense for the character to be naked never seem to have realism problems with the way Wolverine’s jeans miraculously survived at the end of the third X-Men movie.
Tangent. Sorry. Anyway, it’s all about ethics in game journalism, amirite?
No, wait. It’s about Llylth, the succubus-queen.
And what else has queens? Besides certain alien xenomorphs, of course?
***
Their lair, it really is like a giant subterranean infernal beehive.
Only, it isn’t wax. What they process and store isn’t honey. The ‘nectar’ they collect does not come from flowers.
Let’s call it semencomb. Cumcomb may be funnier, but is just awkward to say.
The structure of their society is hivelike too, with the busy little succubus-drones going out to gather the goods and bring it home. Some for sustenance, of course; it’s nutrient-rich, packed with proteins, vitamins, and minerals.
Not that it’ll likely be the next big superfood diet craze, sorry fellas…whatever overall health benefits there may be, a typical serving size of about a teaspoon per isn’t going to put any supplement companies out of business anytime soon.
For a succubus colony, however, it’s another story.
***
Speaking of another story, there is one aspect of succubus lore that tends to be ignored or overlooked.
That’d be the incubus.
Not nearly so well-known.
So not nearly so well-known, in fact, that, once—and this is no-shit legit, check Snopes—a top-brand company thought it’d make a nifty brand name for a line of ladies’ running shoe. Seriously. The Reebok Incubus. Look it up.
Someone must’ve done just enough thesaurus research to figure it was a cool-sounding synonym for ‘spirit’ and not quite enough to realize the more common definition is more like ‘male sex vampire.’
Oops. Slight marketing blooper, but they caught it in time to pull their overly-expensive sneakers off the market.
Male sex vampire. Funny that, because a succubus is more usually considered a sex demon, with the vampire angle downplayed or left off.
And male sex vampire, hey, that’s become pretty much synonymous with sexy male vampire. Down the torrid rabbit hole of paranormal romance you go, first they’re all brooding and dark and angsty and then they become sparkly little bitches and what the hell happened, people?
Ahem. Anyway.
Male or female doesn’t matter, because they’re neither. Or both. Depending. Depending on circumstance, occasion, and need. It’s the exact same being, performing various different functions.
***
Again, like bees.
Collection.
Production.
Construction.
Protection.
Implantation.
Incubation.
That last one…Word Origins for $800, Alex…funny how it just all fits together, isn’t it?
***
And remember Enoch, our eunuch? We were talking about him earlier.
Speaking of linguistics and word origins, by the way, the term ‘eunuch’ is from the Greek.
Okay, sure, we could go with castrato, which is Italian, but that term usually applies more to singing and the musical aspect, and implies angelic blond choir boys with the sweet voices of ultimate purity.
Enoch Shaw, not so much.
Also, naming someone Enoch? Then making him a eunuch? That’s just insult to injury. Would anybody really have blamed him if he had killed his parents?
Anyway, Enoch the eunuch.
Who’s obsessed with making babies…with playing God.<
br />
Or, in some cases, with doing God one better.
He loves making women pregnant. He’s really good at it, too. Especially women who otherwise might never have babies, for whatever reason. He loves it. Gives him a real sense of power and potency. Sure, maybe he has no penis, maybe he has no scrotum or testicles or sperm of his own…but why let that stop him?
In a sense, that almost makes him an incubus.
A eunuch incubus, how about that?
Chapter Nineteen: Suspension
He’d tried fighting. He’d tried begging.
Neither worked.
They were too strong, too many to fight. His pleas went ignored or unheard.
They only obeyed Her.
She Who Must Be Obeyed? What was that even from? Some book, or some British thing, as best he can remember.
All he knew was, his mother had a sleepshirt with that printed on it in glittery gold cursive, with the image of a crown. Also a coffee mug and a framed print for her office at the clinic. ‘Gag’ gifts from the staff. Ha-ha, yes, so funny.
He’d even tried bargaining. Ready to sell out his parents, ruin the family business, screw over the entire town and indeed the whole damn world.
That didn’t work, either. They didn’t want it processed, in vials, frozen and cold. Maybe in a pinch, maybe to store up like squirrels with nuts for the winter, but They far preferred having it fresh from the source.
She was like some giant, gelatinous Terminator. Couldn’t be argued with, couldn’t be reasoned with, didn’t feel pity or remorse or fear or whatever. Just hunger. Her hunger, Her need and Her lust.
And wouldn’t stop until he was dead?
He wished it was that simple.
He wished he was dead.
She wouldn’t let him die. They wouldn’t let him. Somehow, They kept keeping him alive.
Feeding him…
An all-liquid diet.
Thick, warm, and creamy. Like blended milk and honey, manna from Heaven, but it wasn’t honey and it sure as hell wasn’t milk.
Force-feeding him, because, like a stubborn baby in a highchair, he’d refused to willingly partake of the puddingy offerings, and spat back out whatever got into his mouth.
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