An erotic tale for Halloween.
It was an old, 16th century inn, and the sculpture in the rafters of the nude succubus was a sign that it had also been a brothel. That’s what the little tourist brochure said. Timothy didn’t know how accurate that was, but of course a titillating story like that sold better than “Someone carved a naked woman here and we don’t know why.” If it was true, he wondered if the customers of the brothel remembered that the succubus was known for stealing the seed from her victims, then shifting into an incubus and implanting the seed into a female. Or that both succubus and incubus were known for stealing the breath from their victims. These were only stories invented to make sense of wet dreams, illicit pregnancies, or unexplained deaths, of course. But the myth of the succubus, who forced herself on a sleeping man, had prevailed for centuries, and probably always would.
The best view of the entire sculpture could be had from below, but from the window in Timothy’s room, he could see her left breast close up. Timothy admired its frank eroticism, and that it had survived so long, and then he looked down onto the street.
He saw quite a few people in fancy dress – more adults than children seemed to be celebrating Halloween. There were sexy pirate wenches, sexy vampires, sexy nurses, sexy harem girls – and many men in costumes more comical than attractive. It seemed costume designers hadn’t quite figured out how to sexualize the male body. All of the costumed people were headed to pubs or parties. Timothy had read somewhere that Halloween had become a sort of “Straight Pride” event – a chance for heterosexuals to dress up and behave like sluts.
It wouldn’t be hard for Timothy to join in on the events. He didn’t have much in his suitcase, but he could probably improvise something, if he stopped somewhere to get some makeup. He imagined himself as a zombie, finding a single girl dressed as a sexy necromancer, buying her drinks, bringing her back here. They’d giggle over the succubus carving. He’d run his hands over her body through her satin costume while she ripped off the rest of his torn t-shirt. He’d drop to his knees to go up under her skirt and start eating her out, tasting pussy for the first time.
I don’t have any condoms. I’ll have to remember to get some when I get the cosmetics, he thought.
He didn’t go out. He sat propped up in bed, using his laptop, looking at porn and jerking off. It was easier than thinking about how to approach a real woman.
It was long after he’d put the laptop away, near midnight, when the succubus came through his window. He heard the creak of the window opening, felt the chilled breeze, smelled something that reminded him of the strip club he often frequented, the smell of female. The only light was the crescent moon, which gave him a silhouette of her curves.
Then she was on him.
Timothy had never been with a woman he hadn’t paid for – had never had anything close to this experience. She seemed to have more hands than was possible, touching him everywhere, kissing him everywhere. Her body was ripe and luscious, and when she crouched over him in a manner that was not an offer, but a demand, he didn’t hesitate. This was ambrosia, the god’s nectar, served on Olympus. This was the elixir of immortality. He was already close to the summit, and when she put her mouth on him, he groaned his pleasure into her cunt while she drained his cock dry.
“Did you feel the earth move?” was said the next day, usually with giggles, by the formerly costumed partygoers who had found a companion for the night. A minor earthquake had occurred. A few chimneys had fallen. Some masonry was damaged. The electricity was out parts of the town. The owner of the inn knocked on doors one by one, making sure no one was harmed, assuring them he’d called the power company, and so on. When number 8 didn’t answer, he knocked again, harder, called out. Finally, he got his master key and entered.
Timothy Brazier was in his bed, nude, his eyes open and staring at nothing, his body coated with plaster that had been knocked loose from the ceiling, his mouth wide open and full of the same dust.
Soon the inn was crawling with people. Paramedics, police, the coroner, the insurance adjuster. The owner took a moment when no one was bombarding him with questions to walk around the inn, and make sure the historical carvings hadn’t been damaged by the tremor, and ticked them off mentally, one by one: the gryphon, the lion, the dragon, the unicorn, the incubus. He looked up at the incubus, with its lewd, oversized genitals, and had a sense that something was wrong. No. It was just nerves. It was only the knowledge that a man had suffocated to death in the room next to the incubus. He moved on.
Originally published September 23, 2011