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  1. Sam and Tilly In the Beginning
  2. In the Arms of the Succubus By Millie Dynamite

In the Arms of the Succubus By Millie Dynamite

Categories Fantasy, Female Domination, Dark Fantasy, Reluctance

Authror: 90lbsofDynamite

Published: 17 October 2017

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In the Arms of the Succubus
By Millie Dynamite


Fog rolled over the small village as the sun dipped toward the horizon. It blew over the church and a lovely rose garden next to the old stone structure. The air chilled as the sun set, and Sylvester pulled his overcoat tight and buttoned it. Running the finger under the collar, he thought to himself, getting tight, either I’m putting on weight or I have worn this thing for too long. Turning his back to the breeze, he continued his prayer, keeping track of each prayer with the beads of his rosary. The breeze wafted through the church garden, and Father Sylvester felt its frigid effect. Having finished his act of contrition, the priest rose. The man crossed himself and moved through the roses toward the rectory.

A woman seemed to materialize in his path. Sylvester stopped dead in his tracks. Like an apparition this waif of a woman emerged from the fog. A small woman, barely five feet tall, with curly dark hair, dark olive complexion bordering on ochre, stood in his path. Father Sylvester couldn’t tell if she was African American, Middle Eastern, or perhaps of Mediterranean descent. Her eyes fixed on the priest, scrutinizing his face, as though she sought an answer. The amber eyes caught the faint light and radiated, capturing his attention, mesmerizing the man. With a knowing look, the lift of an eyebrow, he knew she saw through his appearance of piety. He realized she sensed his long-buried yearnings, and dark desires. Her lips curled a little, not a smile nor smirk, more something close to contempt.

Father Sylvester’s feet seemed frozen to the ground. The fog obscured everything but the woman. He gazed at her, feeling something…something he hadn’t felt in such a long time, and this…exquisite creature…knew what those feelings were. Their eyes were locked and a battle ensued that the priest only vaguely comprehended. He drank in her beauty, his long standing self-imposed stoic resistance to yield to the fairer flesh, crumbled as desire built inside him. He felt the moisture of the fog gather on his face. This wasn’t a dream.

Nonetheless, Father Sylvester hoped this gorgeous specter was some construct of his own subconscious brain, and nothing more. That said, he ached for her to be flesh and blood. Having resisted carnal hungers for twenty years, Sylvester thought himself beyond what he felt in this moment. Still it burned in him, the lust he had suppressed for so long, threatened to break the surface.

An exquisite woman who exuded sensuality stood before him, unashamed. Her dark nipples were erect and poking through the sheer white gown. For the world, it looked like a burial shroud. A dark tuft of hair formed a triangle at the point where her legs met. He felt his manhood stiffen at the sight of her. He tried to fight it, but the flesh is weak.

He felt a wanton lust burning in him, and sensed the same licentiousness in her. The beauty before him consumed his thoughts, his emotions, even his soul. Her pink tongue darted out, ran over her full crimson lips; her nostrils flared as if she inhaled his scent. Sylvester tried to say something but the words didn’t come. She moved to him, lifted her small hand and placed a dainty finger over his lips.

“We don’t need words,” she said, then her hand dropped to his. Out of some instinct he took her hand, as an icy, hot blast of energy flowed between them. Realization burst in him. This was real and the magnificent female lead Sylvester away from the garden. He smelt an odd fragrance in the air, her scent. He wanted to bury his nose in that smell until it filled every fiber of his being. The disgusting odors of the village faded and that aroma replaced the foul stench with sweetness.

The moist air warmed his flesh as they moved through the thickening fog. They walked past the church, into the backstreet, down to a small shack behind a house. She opened the door and led him inside the small room. A single candle burned in the room, its flickering flame illuminating the room and casting ghostly shadows. Sylvester knew he shouldn’t be here. The shame of it burned him, but she possessed his every fiber.

“Close the door,” she told him, and he did so without question. Turning, he beheld her as she slipped out of the thin dress. “Remove the cross.”

Father Sylvester tried to resist, but he couldn’t. The cross had become heavy, unyielding, as it hung on his hip like a gunslinger’s firearm. Removing it, he tossed it off into a darkened area of the small building. The main feature of the room was a bed, covered in rose petals. Thousands of petals, red, yellow, burgundy, orange, pink, white, pale green, lavender and even black ones. Inches thick, it formed a spread.

“Remove your clothing,” she said. “It offends me with its religious connotations.”
Stripping out of his vestments, he piled them in the darkened corner covering the cross and his rosary beads. He turned, his pecker bobbing up and down, while he willed the thing to harden more. It must be worthy of her. She lay on the bed spreading her arms and legs.

“Come, Sylvester,” she ordered him, “come and worship your goddess, Maranda.”

He fought the order, his mind rebelling to the sacrilege. Standing his ground, he clenched his fist. Maranda sat up and looked at him, her amber eyes burned into his soul. This battle had been fought and won so many times. Was one failure all that important? Still he resisted, but those eyes, he lost himself in those lipid pools of amber. Like an insect in sap she had trapped him. His fist relaxed. He moved his left foot forward, then his right. Each step became easier to take, and with each passing moment, his duty to the church, to God, dimmed in his mind. There was nothing but Maranda.

Mounting the bed, Sylvester prostrated himself face down in her pubic hair. Inhaling her intoxicating perfume, he could breathe this fragrance for eternity. Then came the other scent, the salty, metallic, sexually charged redolence that overtook him, overwhelming his desire.

The goddess lay back, then grabbing a handful of his salt and pepper hair, she pushed him down into her own musky petals. Digging her nails in, she forced his lips to her labia, his nose nestled against her clitoris.
“Worship,” she ordered and the word burned into his heart. His tongue slivered over her labia, parting the lips as he explored the moist folds. The taste held more flavor than he remembered; sweeter, more metallic, a thick goo oozing out to be taken. His mind raced as something fled from him to her. Her hips writhed as he continued, pushing inside her with his tongue. He ate the sticky fluid, and again, something left him. Arching up, she pushed his head lower.

“Worship in this place, now,” she demanded.

He attentively touched the sphincter with the tip of his tongue, pushing spit over the opening. He willed himself to stop, and he tried to move away, but some unseen … thing … demanded him to continue. His tongue darted in and out until the woman dragged his head back to her savory folds. The hesitation bolted. Sylvester explored, tasted, and thrust his tongue in with a relished abandon. And something left him and went to her.

Soon, Maranda’s hips began to buck, and she ground herself against him. Her breath hastened, her breasts heaved, as her body shuddered through one massive orgasm after another. Father Sylvester felt weak, as her climax seemed to suck his energy from him. Fear erupted in Sylvester. He now knew what the woman was. Even so, he stayed, unwilling to leave her. Like a mouse enthralled by the gaze of a snake, he embraced his own destruction, a willing, eager prey sacrificing itself to the predator.
He crawled up her body, kissing, caressing, gently biting her burning flesh. Spending time on her breasts, he pinched, squeezed and cupped her perfection, yearning for her to take everything from him. And yet, the niggling voice told him, “You would burn in hell.”
Nevertheless, he didn’t care. At last, he beheld her eyes, losing all concern for his soul in her brilliant, blinding gaze.

“Fuck me, priest,” she commanded. “Violate your oath and become mine.”

He thrust inside her, as her hands moved over his flesh. He heaved in and pulled back only to lunge inside once more. He drove his prick into her sweetness and felt more of him leave and become hers.

Her hands moved over his hard body, freezing and burning him at the same time. Her touch drew more of him to her. He plunged inside her, harder, deeper, craving only to please her. Her succulent body thrashed underneath him, driving Sylvester nearer and nearer the edge, until unable to contain himself any longer, he dumped his seed deep inside her body. It had been so long since the priest had yielded to the flesh. The pure pleasure of it intoxicated him, controlled him.

And yet, he stayed rigid and kept pumping, and the dance continued. But his strength fled him, his will abandoned him, his morals evaporated at her glance, and she devoured him with every thrust.

He would no sooner climax than their affinity reignited. No release brought him completion, yet it took something from him. They changed positions. He kneeled, and the goddess ordered him to pray to her as he fucked her. He offered her thanksgiving and praise as his loving hands roamed her perfect body. He swore his life and soul to her as he thrust inside her. He willingly gave her everything of himself.

He wanted forgiveness, but he couldn’t remember how to ask for it. He wanted help but couldn’t form the cognitive link to understand how to receive it. In the end, he only wanted his goddess. Desperately, he needed her touch, the taste of her pungent essence.
He didn’t know how many times they had copulated. But it didn’t matter. He just needed one more time, and then another. After hours, his strength failed and he collapsed on top of Maranda, then rolled off and landed on the floor. On his back, he looked up at the ceiling, unable to focus his eyes.

His cock still stood straight up, as he felt Maranda mount him again. She ran her hot and cold hands over his skin. Hot flames of desire spread at her touch as she took in more of his being. He felt his discharge shoot inside her, that greedy, demanding orifice sucking his semen and his soul into it, but returning nothing to him.

In a frail, weak voice, he repeatedly whispered worshipful prostrations of her beauty and grace. His eyes dimmed. He couldn’t lift his arms, his hands trembled as his body shuddered. His proclamation changed.

“You’re killing me,” he said.

“Yes,” Maranda answered him. “Isn’t it glorious?” Rising from him, she picked up her garment she pulled it around her. As the sun broke through the window, she vanished, just as quickly as she’d first appeared in the fog of night.

“Come back,” he whispered, “please come back, come back.” He begged for her return until he succumbed to sleep, still laying on the bare floor. Waking at midday, he managed to slowly redress himself. The cross and rosary pulled at him, hurting his hip. The clothing clung to him, scratching his flesh. On weak, shaky legs, he stumbled down the alleyway back toward his church.

As the days passed, his strength returned. A week later he had buried the entire event deep in his subconscious. One evening, several weeks later, as he prayed in the garden, the words stuck in his throat. His thoughts turned dark and the fog covered him. The aroma wafted into his nostrils, that sweet familiar scent. Rising, he turned and she was there.

And so, it went for years, as she would take him hand in hand back to the run down building. Each time he tried to resist, and each time, he knew he never could. Until one night his shame was finally over, as he passed in her arms. Drained of his entire energy in one final act of submission.

The village and church is still there. The fog still covers it from time to time, even after a hundred years. Sometimes at night, you can hear him begging her to return. The only answer on the breeze, a soft, sadistic laugh floating on the night air.

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