MARK OF THE INCUBUS
The following story contains sex acts between adults and teenagers of all genders. Some of the sex may happen under the influence of magic and might be dubbed non-consensual. Being forced to have sex against your will can be very hot in a fantasy, but would be dreadful in reality. Please always check in with your partners in real life to be sure everything you are doing is enthusiastically consensual (even if you are pretending to be an incubus thrall being magically coerced into sexual depravity by your master). This is also a lower tech fantasy setting where condoms are not readily available, and unprotected sex will abound. We are lucky in real life to have condoms that allow us to enjoy our sexual freedom without being afraid of STIs or unplanned pregnancies, so once again, please make enlightened decisions in managing your sexual health.
Any feedback is appreciated, and it's always wonderful to hear of people who got a good time from the story. You can reach me at queer_tribes@yahoo.ca.
Finally, if you have a thing for werewolves, smut, and some gore, feel free to check out my other story on Nifty, The Tenderness of Wolves:
http://www.nifty.org//nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/tenderness-of-wolves/
And now on with the incubus goodness. :)
Chapter 1 - Vincent
"...and protect us from the weakness of the flesh!", yelled the cleric as he brought down his sacrificial knife on the helpless goat. This was the part Vincent had always disliked. He looked away, taking in a deep breath to retain control of his stomach. He hoped Father Mateo had not noticed; the man of the cloak would not appreciate a squeamish altar boy.
Vincent glanced at the crowd to avoid the morbid spectacle of the sacrifice. They were on their knees, adults and children, men and women alike. Anyone old enough to not be considered a child anymore had cut themselves with knives of their own - blades called "katars" that had been blessed by the clerics. There was power in blood, power in sacrifice. It was customary to cut the back of the left hand, but cutting the top side of the forearm was also accepted. This is what Vincent had done; the son of a carpenter, he often had to work with his hands, and he'd rather keep them uninjured. He didn't mind the cutting as much as the killing; he was used to hard labour, and that came with the frequent minor injury. He stared at the blood trickling down his arm. The cut was shallow, and he would bandage it after mass, as everyone did. It was almost over. The ritual sacrifice of the goat was the climax. Father Mateo would utter a blessing, and the crowd
would be on its way. Vincent would help clean and put away the various implements the cleric had used, and then he would be on his way soon. He very much looked forward to a cigarette, and to spending some time with his Anya, the baker's daughter. She was his sweetheart. They had grown up together; one day he would wed her, and he would give her children. It was customary also to marry young, but Vincent could think of worse fates than living with her for the rest of his life. He liked her.
He had just lit his cigarette when Anya found him under the Second Bridge. He took in the sights she offered. Her long, red hair was untied, and it framed her freckled face. She had the cutest upturned nose, and this smirk that always let him know she was up to something. She was still wearing her red dress from mass; all adult women wore crimson garments for the ceremony. He caught himself wishing her clothes would reveal more of her curves. He chased away the thought. He recalled Father Mateo's admonition. `The flesh is weak.'
"You got a cigarette for me, handsome?"
She always called him handsome. He liked that very much when she did. Truth be told, he had never seen himself as much to look at. He was tall and broad, and he had big hands; he assumed women enjoyed that about him. But he had a bad case of acne on his face and shoulders, and he hated this about him. His mother told him this was a teenage thing, and that it would go away eventually. So far, "eventually" had taken more than three years, and it showed no sign of happening soon.
He handed her the cigarette he had rolled for her, ahead of time; she took it with her long fingers and brought it to her red lips. He cracked a match. He cupped the side of her cigarette with his hand as he lit it up, and he used that as an excuse to brush the soft, pale skin of her cheek. Then he pulled away, and he leaned against the masonry wall. He watched her taking in her first drag, aware of the goofy grin on his face, but not caring.
"Dead goats, you're beautiful, you know that?"
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Vincent. Thanks for the smoke."
"Mass was dreadful. My mother went behind my back and told Father Mateo I could be his altar boy today, can you believe that?"
She chuckled.
"Maybe she has hopes you'll take the cloak."
"Bloody katars, she can hope as much as she likes. I'm not going to spend my life butchering goats for an audience."
"You've got the blasphemy easy, today."
He shrugged.
"You know I don't care much for mass. Blood magic, that's what it is. Spells are for the crooked, the clerics say. But put some killing and cutting to them and do them in a pretty building, and it's all okay.
He shook his head.
"Listen. The teachings of Ataru are there."
He pounded his chest, where his heart was, with his fist.
"I follow them. I pray at daybreak, high noon, and twilight. I keep my flesh pure. I work hard, everyday. But the blood sacrifices? That just creeps me out."
He finished the last of his cigarette in an angry gesture. She also took a drag, looking at him, a grin on her face.
"Your flesh isn't so pure."
He blushed. His loins stirred. `Bloody katars', he thought. They had kissed a lot, he and her. Not chaste, proper kisses. Kisses that made his body quiver, his blood boil. He had groped her too, in improper ways. He remembered her small breasts that he had felt through her clothes. When it was too difficult to stop thinking about her warm lips, her wet tongue, or her forbidden mounds, he prayed, even if the sun wasn't right. Custom dictated he should cut to keep his flesh clean, but he saw little point in it. It was his thoughts that mattered.
"You'll get us in trouble. What if somebody sees us?"
"Don't talk as if this was on me. You love it as much as I do."
She threw the butt of her cigarette to the ground.
"Okay, okay", he admitted. "I like it."
There was his goofy grin again. That's why he liked her. She wasn't meek and shy like the other girls. She was bold, and she knew what she wanted. `She wants me', he thought. It was enough to bring a swell to his male member.
"Wanna do it again?"
His breath caught in his chest. Of course he wanted to. But it was against the teachings. The teachings and "want" did not go along well. Sharing the flesh was only for the married, and even though, only to give one another children. Nothing they had done had even come close to a full sharing, but there was no ambiguity in the teachings - their mouths should not meet, and hands should be kept to themselves. But he couldn't help it.
"Yes", he breathed.
She stepped towards him, and she wrapped her hands around his waist. She drew him close, and she brought her lips to his. They began kissing. With just the lips first, then with the tongue. She had always initiated their kissing, but he had shown her the tongue. He knew about the tongue because his best friend Arwick had told him; Arwick had kissed girls too, and he knew a lot on the topic. Anya tasted of tobacco smoke, but Vincent didn't mind. She also tasted of girl and sweet nothings. Now she was taking his hand, and she guided it to her breast. He offered no resistance at all, and he began fondling the soft flesh, although two layers of clothing - her dress and her brassiere - were in the way. She pressed herself against him, and he became very much aware that she could probably feel his erect manhood. It did not stop her. The kissing went on, noisy, wet, and he kept enjoying the cup of her breast. After a long minute, they stopped to catch their
breath.
"You like it?", she asked.
"You know I do."
"There's something I'd like to do for you. My older sister told me about it."
He gave her nose a gentle poke with his finger.
"What do you have in mind?"
"Trust me. Boys like this."
He hesitated. He realized she was offering something that went further than what they had already done together. Truth be told, although their kissing and breast fondling was against the teachings, he knew boys and girls sometimes did this. They cleansed themselves afterwards through prayer and making their blood flow with their katars, and he assumed no one was worst for the wear. But doing anything more than what Anya and he were doing - it could truly endanger their purity.
"Don't be a scaredy cat. Edith has done that to her sweetheart, and nothing terrible happened."
Edith was her older sister.
"Anyway, you're the one who says not to listen to all the clerics say", she added.
"Okay. I'll trust you."
He had never been good at saying "no" to her. The enjoyment they both got from their indiscretions helped. He would just pray harder to make up for it.
She rubbed her nose against his, then she kissed him again. Her soft tongue pushed between his lips, and he welcomed it with his own. He returned to playing with her tit, unprompted this time. He wondered what she wanted to do for him. She lowered her hand from his waist to his thigh. It stayed there for a while. Then it moved to his crotch, grabbing his engorged member through the cloth, feeling it up. It was like a jolt of electricity coursed through him. His first instinct was to grab her hand, to take it away from him, to ask her what in all the dead goats in the world she was thinking - yet he did no such things. Her hand on his cock was the most wonderful sensation he had ever experienced. It was HER hand - Anya's, the most wonderful, beautiful girl he had ever met - on HIS cock. For a moment, he tried to tell himself that this wasn't any worst than him groping her breasts, but he knew the male and the female organs were especially forbidden.
He had not even dared touch his own for pleasure - ever. She was massaging him through his trousers and suddenly, she unbuttoned them. His eyes grew wide. He broke off his mouth from hers.
"Anya, we can't--"
"Shhhh... It's okay. We'll pray together afterwards. You can even be an altar boy for a few masses to make up for it. It's okay. You'll love it."
Spending more Sun Days as an altar boy should not have been a good selling point for this, but he let her convince him. Her hand had been so wonderful. He wanted to know what it would be, her warm flesh against his, without any layer of clothing in between. He feared suddenly his male parts might surprise her, might disgust her. Maybe it would not be what she expected. He did not want to disappoint her. It mattered so much to him, what she thought of him. She opened the front of his trousers, and she slid her hand inside. He rarely wore underpants; it was also technically a violation of the teachings, that demanded his impure parts be properly clothed. But he had always been more comfortable with just his pants and nothing else under. So this is how Anya easily reached his cock, and took hold of it. She wrapped her hand around it, and she began moving her hand up and down his shaft. Vincent wanted to melt in her touch. He had never experienced any
sensation like this. He often had to quell the demands of his flesh. Ever since he had turned 11, his member often became hard and erect, most of the time for no reason, and there had been moments when his boyhood had felt like it needed to be touched, needed to be eased. When it happened, he would pray, or he would douse himself with a bucket of cold water. He had even cut himself a few times when the urges had been too strong. Cutting with his katar had been the most effective, but he never liked taking the blade to his skin outside of mass. So far, he had never done impure things with his male organ. But Anya was doing something very, very impure to him right now. She was using her hand to move the skin of his shaft and rub the innermost part of his rod with it. Even though - like all boys - the clerics had cut his foreskin when he had been a baby, she found enough loose skin to pull over the head of his penis, which was deliciously sensitive. She
had been stroking his member for barely a minute, and her touch was becoming unbearable - except this was the most amazing unbearable' ever, an unbearable' he didn't want to stop. This urge he often felt, it was back, magnified, but it seemed it was about to be relieved, for the first time. He didn't know for sure what it entailed. He had a rough understanding of sex, and he knew men had seed that left their penises to enter their wives - and that this seed should not be spilled under any other circumstances. He had awoken a number of times in the middle of the night or in the morning before the dawn prayer to find a sticky, white fluid clinging to his belly or bedsheet, and he had always prayed much longer on those days, even cutting himself at times, wondering if he had somehow soiled his purity in his sleep. But now, he realized Anya was doing something that would make his seed rise, and he found himself unable to stop her. He did not
want to stop her. His sweetheart was using her hand to touch him in the most pleasurable way he had ever experienced, and he did not have the moral strength to object. His breathing became ragged. Her hand stroked faster. Then it felt like he would lose control, like he would piss on her, except that his manhood seized up and began spurting the sticky, white gunk over her fingers, and then--
His trousers were still undone when he came to, and the world was a spinning mess. He raised a hand, grabbing the masonry wall for support, and he sat up. He looked around, looking for his sweetheart.
"Anya?"
`What happened to me?' He began remembering what they had done, how she had taken his member to make him spill his seed. He glanced at his crotch. The sticky white stuff covered his penis, his pubic hair, and the bottom of his shirt. Had spilling his seed knocked him unconscious? He had not known such a thing could happen. He lifted the soiled edge of his shirt, to see if the substance had soaked through.
Then he froze at the sight.
Below his belly button, a symbol was visible on his skin, covering most of the space above the line where the top of his pubic patch ended. It looked liked three connected spirals, laid out in a reverse triangle pattern. The marking was black, reminiscent of tattoos he had seen etched in the skin of sailors, but without any fading of the ink. Vincent brought his hand to his mouth.
"No, no, no, no, no..."
He knew the symbol. He had known it since childhood. It was taught to all children early on in the teachings: the mark of the anathema, those who had soiled their purity and become demons. The demons were said to be trapped in the vices of the flesh, and could do no other thing than lure others in the same depravity. Such a female demon was called a succubus. A male demon was called an incubus - and right there, on his lower belly... Vincent was gazing at the mark of an incubus.
`Where's Anya?'
He tried to stand, but vertigo hit him, and he collapsed against the stone wall, the rough rock edges scraping his exposed backside. His thoughts were racing. Had he hurt her? Had she panicked after he fainted and run for help? Help for him? Help for her? Had she seen the demonic mark? Had she told anyone?
"Stand. Stand, Vincent, you moron", he urged himself.
This time he succeeded. He put his member back in his trouser, feeling shame in his gut. He pulled down his seed-stained shirt over the mark. He should have said no to her. He should have been stronger. This was punishment for their lusts. Then Vincent paused, struggling for balance. Had she been punished too? Was that why she wasn't around? He had to find her.
He stumbled from under the bridge, next to the river, close to the forest that bordered town. Then he heard shouts.
"There he is!"
He spun around, wild eyed, and he saw a contingent of Red Cloaks on the bridge - the Small Inquisitors. There was half a dozen of them, armed with long muskets. They began a hustle towards him.
"Stop in the name of Ataru! Stay right where you are!"
Vincent's knees buckled. He heaved, and tasted rank remains from his breakfast in his mouth, but managed not to throw up. `This can't be happening. This isn't real.' The Red Cloaks would catch him, and they'd see for themselves he had the mark. They would take him to the Bastille. They would torture him until they deemed him cleansed, and then they would drown him.
Vincent didn't even think. He bolted towards the woods, running like he had never run. He heard yells behind him, yells he didn't heed. He was reaching the first trees. The trees were his only chance. Then something hit his lower back, right below his kidney; it burned, inside him, in his gut. He actually felt it a split-second before the snap of gunshots reached his ears; bullets travelled faster than sound, he remembered having heard, once. He tripped on a root, and he nearly collapsed, but he somehow managed to retrieve his balance. If he fell, if he stopped, he was lost. Pain was spreading where the bullet had hit him, hot, throbbing. He ignored it, pushing his body, his legs, his endurance to the limit. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop.
He delved into the dark woods, the only hope for his life.
TO BE CONTINUED.