Succubus and Incubus - Sex Stories

Succubus and Incubus

Krystyna stares at me in the pale light of the station café, irises made pure black by her contacts. She is starting to look preternaturally white; we’ve put off our feed too long this time. “You’re hungry, Krys.” “So are you, you look like a ghost.” She stirs her coffee, licks her spoon, her full lips parting for the tip of her forked tongue. She is as exquisite as the day we met, 350 years ago, and I love her. I am also in the extraordinarily rare situation of knowing – with absolute certainty – that she loves me too. “Him.” I gesture to a handsome specimen sat at the bar. Burly, suited and lonely, the aura of his best intentions a golden halo about him. She shakes her head, sighs and nods to a nervous, pretty traveler collecting change. “Her. I’ll do a girl,” she whispers. I bang the table, spoons and cups rattle. “No Krys! I will not have you sacrificing your feed for my feelings.” Krys frowns and sighs. Her trembling has started, there is no time for this and she knows it. Her stomach will be cramping, her sex will be engorged. “Okay,” she snaps, “But you’re next.” With a slump of inevitability and dread, we approach the man. # In the summer of 1662 I was on my annual escape from London’s broiling stench, hop-picking in the fields of Kent in exchange for a bunk in one of the sheds built by the fields for itinerant workers. I was twenty-three, and with a group of bawdy lads who saw it as their duty to pluck hops while sowing seeds in as many of the creamy local girls as ...

... possible. Krystyna, however wasn’t local. She was Polish, a visiting worker like myself. She blossomed like a fever in me, the feline grace of her features and the strength in her limbs. Her skirts tucked in the top of her underwear and long wheat-coloured curls knotted back off her face. Soon, I couldn’t sleep for anticipating her presence. Every sight of her unhinged my knees, as if my body swore fealty of its own accord. I didn’t know whether it was the delusion of my obsession or an actual truth – I didn’t possess the wits then that I have now – but there in the cool water of her eyes I thought I found a glimmer of the same, for me. Fate was soon bent to our will, with the supervisor dictating I should work alongside her. After stilted moments of awkward glee, we took up our positions and worked, silently and hard, throughout the day without a pause for any kind of sustenance other than water. This, glugged from a gourd, sharing the same mouthpiece without catching each other’s eye. The vigour of our labour, to me, was the purest of all lovemaking. And when the sun was set, our friends had to cajole us off the fields. That night, around the communal fire before we took to our bunks, Krystyna and I sat reflecting flames at each other as if the rumbustious celebrations around us didn’t exist. Hypnotised beyond all awkwardness, I patted the ground by me and she immediately moved to my side, without even a change in her expression. I put my arm around her, pressed her hot body ...