A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day and other tales

by M. E. Hydra

  He was down to the tops of his thighs now. His tracky bottoms and underwear had nearly all rotted away. His hooded top clung to his skin in lank, sodden strips. The pleasant tingling sensation was all over his legs now. An erotic buzz had started up in his balls. Even despite everything, his cock was lengthening in an involuntary erection.

  And he’d thought what he’d seen in the offices had put him off fucking for good.

  A slit opened up in the mud in front of him. Bulges rose up and resolved themselves into the body of Aralia. She lay on her back in the mud in front of him. Her legs were stretched open and she reached down to part the labia of her pussy.

  “I can make my mud feel as good as any vagina,” she said, her eyes sparkling with seductive mischief. “All you have to do is let yourself sink.”

  Doyle paused. He was tempted. Aralia’s naked body was phenomenal—curvy in all the right places without being fat. He only ever got to see bodies like that in the pages of glamour magazines. He was a dumb kid from The Estate; under normal circumstances he’d never see anything like this in the flesh. She looked fucking fine.

  He sank.

  The underside of his erection touched the surface of the mud, jolting him out of his trance. He struggled, regaining maybe an inch. The clinging mud was reluctant to let his penis go. The girl brought her full lips together in a disappointed pout.

  “Such a tease,” she said.

  Fuck this, Doyle thought.

  He lashed out at her prone body, but his hand passed through nothing more than sticky mud as she collapsed back into the quagmire. Her sudden dissolution caught Doyle off guard and he overbalanced and fell forwards into the muck. He managed to get back upright, but was now sunk in the mire up to his waist.

  “Mmm, I want you deep inside me,” Aralia purred.

  She was back to where she’d been before—lounging half-in, half-out of the mud as though she was sitting at the side of a hot tub. It didn’t even look as though she’d moved. The body Doyle had seen lying in front of him must have been some kind of mirage constructed from the wet clay.

  Aralia moved her hand back and forth under the mud. It looked like she was tugging on something under the surface, or maybe wanking someone off.

  It felt like she was wanking him off!

  Below the surface Doyle felt a slick hand wrap around his cock and begin to tug back and forth. This shouldn’t be possible. She was miles away from him. There was no way she should be able to reach that far unless her arms were five metres long. But he couldn’t deny the evidence of his senses. It felt like someone was wanking him off down there.

  He reached down to try and push whoever it was away. His hands encountered nothing even as the same force pumped up and down his cock. Worse, it only caused him to sink faster. He had to swing his arms out and keep treading his feet into the liquid slurry just to stay at the same level. And while he did that the same mystery hand continued to stroke up and down his shaft.

  “Mmm, why fight it,” Aralia said, bringing her full lips together in a wanton pout. “Sink into me. Drown in sensual depravity.”

  Her hand—if that’s what it was—continued to pump up and down Doyle’s erection. Another hand caressed his buttocks and then slipped between them, lightly fingering his anus and then slithering down to tickle at the underside of his balls. Doyle was getting more and more turned on, but the more turned on he got, the more he sank.

  Aralia stood up and glided across the quagmire to him. Her green eyes glittered like cold precious stones.

  The mud was up to Doyle’s belly now. His struggles were growing weaker. The effort of trying to thrash his limbs through the thick mud had tired him out.

  Aralia smoothly slid behind him and pressed her soft tits against his back. Her unseen hand continued to pump up and down his erection, but this time she was close enough for it to feel like part of her body rather than a disembodied force within the mud. She gently blew in his ear.

  “Relax and sink into me,” she breathed in his ear. “It’s so warm and soft beneath the surface.”

  A moist tongue squirmed in Doyle’s ear.

  “We’ll share such pleasures beneath the surface.”

  Doyle stopped struggling. He’d run out of puff. His hips gave a little buck as Aralia’s hand moved back and forth. Sensing he was nearing climax, Aralia eased off. The quagmire gobbled Doyle up rib by rib.

  Aralia moved around him, less a person and more an amorphous and mutable mass of clay sculpted in the shape of a temptress. Doyle lay back as she straddled him. She stared deep into his eyes as she reached into the mud, wrapped a warm hand around his cock and guided it up into the warm pouch of her sex. Her heat enveloped him, such a contrast and much more comfortable than the chill night air. The warm mud of her pussy crowded up around his cock and continued what the hands had started with rhythmic, rippling sucks.

  Aralia moved her body sinuously against him, each pelvic thrust dropping him another couple of centimetres into the mire. The mud he lay in grew warmer and bubbled up around him. The bubbles burst, enveloping Doyle in a cloud of heady musk.

  He looked up at the hot woman straddling his body. Brown clay dripped from heaving breasts that looked as though they were made out of the same malleable substance. Doyle wasn’t bothered. To him she looked like a vision from one of his wet dreams.

  Fuck it. It wasn’t as if he was ever going to amount to anything in this world anyway. People like him never did. He relished the sensations of Aralia’s pussy throbbing around him and added his own movements as he started to thrust back.

  Aralia’s full lips formed an o and she sighed in pleasure.

  “Mmm, that’s it. Give yourself to me and sink.”

  She wrapped her legs around him. She lowered her body on top of him and hugged him tight. Her pussy fluttered around Doyle’s cock. More bubbles rose to the surface. Doyle let go with a gasp. Pleasure flooded through him as his hips bucked and he spurted cum up into her pussy. The mud around their bodies bubbled more vigorously and the air was filled with the licentious stink of sex.

  Doyle’s head fell beneath the surface and runny mud entered his mouth and nostrils. Reflexively he jerked his head back up and coughed and spluttered to clear his airwaves.

  Above him Aralia paused. Momentary confusion played in her sparkling emerald eyes. The predatory lines of her harlot’s face temporarily softened. For an instant she looked more like a lost girl in her late teens than a ravenous sex kitten demon.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Sadly for Doyle, it was only a brief instant. The fresh clay of her face rippled and reformed into the mask of a triumphant predator on the verge of claiming its kill. She pursed full glistening lips and fell down on Doyle in a kiss that bore him back down. Her arms and legs moved around him in a passionate clinch as her lips pressed against him and she kissed all the resistance out of him.

  Her super-malleable vagina continued to throb around his cock in liquid pulsations that sent bolts of pleasure crackling down into his groin. He erupted again and this time her body milked him with slow, steady squeezes.

  And then, on this most misbegotten of nights, the most unfortunate—or fortunate, for some would regard the sensual pleasures Aralia visited on his body as an experience worth any price—Doyle Lowry sank beneath the surface. Ripples and thick bubbles stirred the surface of the building site. Beneath the surface Aralia’s lips and hands softly caressed Doyle, revealing to him a world of blissful depravities he’d never known existed. The rhythmic throb of Aralia’s vagina expanded to encompass the whole of Doyle. Enveloped in warm and mobile clay, his body shuddered and twitched in what felt like endless orgasm.

  Within her he didn’t feel the need to breathe. And then—once Aralia had emptied him—Doyle didn’t need for anything at all. Before conscious thought was driven from him he wondered why he’d fought so hard to avoid this.

  A final bubble burst with a plop and then the surface was once again still. The security lamp bl
inked off. Doyle, an unfortunate observer on plans and schemes beyond his understanding, was swallowed up by the earth as though he’d never walked it.

  Crabs

  What do you get the man who has everything? Newman G. Smythe knew the answer to that question.

  A bigger fucking dick.

  He stood in a fancy hotel room many floors above street level. The room was familiar, comfortable. Hotel rooms didn’t vary that much. The walls were covered in plain burgundy wallpaper and decorated with bland prints of modern art. There were two queen-sized beds. A large television set stood in a cabinet against the far wall. The door to a large en-suite bathroom was located off a short entrance hallway. Wardrobes took up the opposite wall of the hallway.

  Smythe had spent many nights in rooms like this.

  The view wasn’t quite so familiar. Smythe looked out of the window onto a chaotic, sprawling city. Numerous neon signs lit up the maze of streets. Those streets, the veins and arteries of the city, were clogged up with traffic that honked like frustrated beasts. It was at once both recognizably human and completely alien. It was such a contrast to the pebbledash council estates of his youth. It reminded him how far he’d come.

  He wasn’t here—hadn’t flown all the way out to the other side of the world—for the sightseeing.

  There was a knock at the door, soft enough to almost be inaudible.

  Smythe was familiar with such knocks. Like the hotel rooms they’d been a regular part of his life over the last decade. He felt the same anticipation, the same response—heart beating faster, palms growing sweaty—even though this time his excitement had a different cause.

  * * * *

  “Mr Smythe, please allow me to express our deepest apologies. At Tor Noire we expect our girls to be the pinnacle of professionalism and courteousness. Our client’s pleasure and satisfaction is of the utmost importance to us. I’m truly mortified one of our girls has given you such a negative experience.”

  It must be serious. Trish had very little to do with the day-to-day running of the Tor Noire agency nowadays. For her to contact him was an indication of how seriously she regarded the incident.

  Smythe was flattered but only partially mollified. He was owed some serious ass-kissing on this.

  * * * *

  He’d known something was wrong as soon as he’d opened the door. He should have sent her back right then. He didn’t because she was absolutely stunning. Tall and slender, her dark hair cascaded over dusky shoulders. Her lips formed a full, deliciously kissable pout. She had an athletic body, but still possessed enough curves to be sexy. Gorgeous.

  Despite all this, he should have sent her away and requested another girl. He knew it at the time. Smythe had no illusions about the nature of their transaction, but he liked the girl to at least feign interest. He picked up no vibe or spark from this girl. The only thing in her eyes was attitude and boredom.

  The sex was crap. She lay back, opened her legs and did a passable impression of a lifeless rubber sex doll. If she wasn’t staring into space, she was staring up at the clock and counting down the minutes. It was about as erotic as fucking a corpse.

  Smythe climbed on top and gamely thrust away, hoping the hotness of her body would be enough to get him off.

  It wasn’t. He felt nothing emotionally. He didn’t feel much between his legs either. Her pussy was so loose there was barely any friction at all. He kept pumping away, but it quickly became apparent he wasn’t getting anywhere. His hard-on was already softening and no amount of coaxing would bring it back to life.

  “You done, honey?” the girl asked, her tone bored.

  “Yeah,” Smythe replied. He rolled off her and pulled the still empty condom off his dick.

  It was one of the inevitable downsides to his ‘hobby’. Every so often there was a mediocre experience. Although it had been a while since he’d had a session as disastrous as this one. It was surprising it had come from one of Tor Noire’s girls. Normally they were very good.

  Smythe paid the girl after they both got dressed. He was surprised when she didn’t leave immediately, instead pausing at the door. Was she waiting for something?

  “Do you have a little extra, honey?” she asked.

  Smythe was stunned. The girls at Tor Noire were not allowed to ask for tips, or even receive them, not even for the taxi fare home. The Tor Noire agency was very strict on this. He’d tried to tip a girl before, after a particularly enjoyable romp, but she’d given him the money back. This girl must be new.

  “You do know that wasn’t a particularly good session,” he said, trying to fathom how the girl could justify to herself she warranted a tip. “Even if I could tip, which both you and I know Tor Noire won’t allow, I wouldn’t. Not for a service as average as that.”

  The girl’s expression soured.

  “Well I can’t help it if your dick’s too small to feel anything,” she huffed, before storming out of the room.

  Smythe was left stunned, speechless even.

  * * * *

  “The girl was a last minute replacement to fill in for one of our regular girls after she got sick,” Trish explained over the phone. “Needless to say, she won’t be working for Tor Noire again. The girl who recommended her has also been sternly reminded of the importance we place on client satisfaction in maintaining Tor Noire’s illustrious reputation.”

  Trish was so keen to protect Tor Noire’s reputation she scheduled Smythe a free appointment with one of his favourite girls.

  Smythe liked Jo. She was loud, rowdy and absolute filth in the bedroom. The previous times she’d visited him had been a great deal of fun. This time...

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Jo asked, noticing the flaccid state of his manhood.

  The words the other girl had said to him were still preying on his mind. Did he really have a small dick? He hadn’t given it much thought before. He’d always assumed he was perfectly average in that regard. Sure, he knew he wasn’t humongous. He knew he didn’t match up to the porn star studs, but he was also sensible enough not to try and compare himself against such atypical ideals. He was a normal bloke with a normal size, or at least he’d thought so. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “How do I measure up to your other clients, in this department?” Smythe said, glancing down to his crotch. “I’m about the same, right?”

  Jo paused. For a moment she seemed unsure how to respond. Eventually she burst out laughing.

  “Oh honey, you’re not really worried about that, are you?” she said. “You know the saying. It’s not how big it is, it’s how you use it.”

  Not exactly the most reassuring of answers, Smythe thought later. At the time, Jo took his mind off it by bending down and gobbling up his cock into her warm and very talented mouth.

  “And there you were thinking it was only women who obsess about their body parts,” Smythe joked once Jo had finished coaxing him up to a state of reasonable hardness with a skilful blowjob.

  “At least we’ve got the good sense to flaunt it when we’ve got it,” Jo said, pushing her considerable boobs together.

  They both laughed. It was too late though. That insidious doubt had crept into Smythe’s mind, and once in there had found fertile folds in which to take root. The thought he might be inferior to other men, that he couldn’t give her proper pleasure, choked him off down below. His erection subsided to floppiness and remained that way despite Jo’s best efforts.

  Right then he knew he needed to get it fixed.

  * * * *

  Smythe had fixed everything else in his life with the same implacable, dogged determination.

  Money had been the first. He’d dragged himself out of a god-awful sink estate with his own two hands. While his contemporaries had been content to sit back and blame all their ills on a nebulous ‘system’—the police, the schools, the government, the bankers, or whatever group they perceived to be oppressing them—Smythe had been out hawking his services to the local office buildings as a repairman extrao
rdinaire for all kinds of technical problems. At first it was him, a push bike and a toolkit. The bike had become a van, the van had become a shop, the shop had become a chain, the chain had become a brand, until Smythe was head of one of the most successful electronics firms in the country.

  Money enabled Smythe to fix his own physical shortcomings. He’d fixed his teeth—getting them straightened and whitened for a smile an American game show host would be proud of. He’d fixed his body—procuring the services of a svelte fitness trainer to halt and turn back the tide of his expanding waistline. He’d fixed his eyes—finally ditching a pair of bottle-bottom spectacles for laser surgery. More surgery had fixed his receding hairline.

  Newman G. Smythe was Mr Fixit. He’d fix this too, whatever the cost.

  * * * *

  It had brought him here, to a hotel room on the other side of the world, above a sprawling city that was bright, chaotic and fundamentally alien.

  He heard the soft knock and opened the door. For a moment he could have fooled himself it was the exact same usual scenario. A tall, extremely exotic Oriental girl stood in the corridor outside. She was dressed in a long, flowing black silk robe. The snakelike bodies of sea serpents were stitched into the fabric with golden thread. A black case stood on the floor next to her feet.

  Smythe was a little disappointed it wasn’t the usual scenario. The girl was strikingly beautiful. Unlike most other Oriental girls, she was tall and there were noticeable curves where her breasts swelled outwards against the tight-fitting fabric of her elegant robes.

  “Mr Smythe?” the girl asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Xie-Mu Huang. I’m the representative from the Ye-Xie Clan.”

  “Do you have it?” Smythe asked, feeling his blood rush through his veins.

  Xie-Mu smiled. She picked up the black case and carried it into the room. Smythe shut the door and watched expectantly as Xie-Mu placed the briefcase on a table and flipped a catch. The lid swung open to reveal an exotic little casket held in place at the centre of the case with black foam padding. The miniature chest was about the same size as a jewellery box and decorated with complex, exotic carvings of serpents, squid and other marine life. The box looked like it must be worth a small fortune, but it was its contents which most interested Smythe.