Synopsis: An erotic supernatural PWP. A succubus, a storm-demon, and a hellovah hurricane.
Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction. All characters, worldbuilding and story belong to the author.
Feedback: Constructive comments and criticism welcomed at sbarret_fic@yahoo.com, and many thanks for reading.
Monique De La Fuega slipped into the dark bedroom, closing the door silently behind her. No one in the creaking Victorian house heard her enter, not the woman sleeping in the four-poster bed before her, nor the woman's husband, who nodded on the worn sofa downstairs, mesmerized by the drone of the television set. A sultry breeze blew through the open bedroom window, carrying the promise of a storm mixed with the scent of Old New Orleans. Monique let the breeze caress her dark skin as she gazed out onto the dimly lit Rue de Moyne two stories below her. She unfastened the buttons on her midnight-blue silk blouse and let the garment drift to the floor. The glow of a streetlamp illuminated the sheen of perspiration that clung to her dark brown skin.
A stiff wind slapped the curtains across Monique's exposed breasts, the slight sting bringing her a ripple of excitement. She turned to the young woman lying on the bed, Shantele, her victim. Shantele tossed fitfully in her sleep. A red satin sheet lay across her nude body, deep red against Shantele's mocha-cream skin. A thin smile traced across Monique's narrow face as she stepped out of her black leather pants and stood naked by the side of the bed. The wind from the window whispered in her ear, a low moan, sensual, arousing. It distracted her from her purpose, but then Shantele sighed in her sleep, her thin hand, topped by perfectly manicured nails, drifted across her own shapely breasts.
Shantele sensed Monique, felt the power of the brown-skinned succubus in her sleep. Monique pulled the satin sheet away from Shantele's willowy body, letting it drift onto the floor as she leaned over the young woman. Shantele would not wake up, not fully. Monique knew her business well, applied her seduction with skill learned from four centuries of delicious practice. She always chose a married woman, one unsatisfied by the beastial lust of her human mate. Monique gave these women a sensual gift, the fulfillment of their sexual fantasies made manifest in her.
She lay down beside Shantele, letting the sleeping woman unconsciously curl her body around Monique. She caressed her victim, feeling the nipples harden under her palms. Shantele's thighs wrapped around Monique, and Monique felt the woman's hot wetness on her leg.
"Not so soon, mon bebe," Monique crooned. "I need you to want me more. I need to stoke the fire that burns in you."
Monique lowered her head to trace her tongue over Shantele's full breasts, stopping to suckle a hard nipple. She held the nipple between her teeth, flicking it with her tongue until Shantele murmured in her sleep. Monique slid her hand lower, cupping her victim's warm heat. Shantele moaned, thrusting herself into Monique's thigh.
"Close, mon bebe, close," Monique whispered. She felt her own growing arousal throbbing between her thighs. But this was not the time for her. This was the time for Shantele, the time to harvest the young woman's sexual powers, to feed off Shantele's unsatiated need. Monique slid down lower, tracing her tongue along Shantele's tight stomach, nibbling the smooth flesh above Shantele's tuft of curly black hair. She inhaled the heady scent of the young woman's desire. Yes, she was close, so very close to her peak.
Monique pressed open Shantele's thighs and let her tongue taste the silky wetness. The young woman clawed at the bed sheets, thrusting, begging.
"Yes. Now. You are mine."
Monique traced her fingers between Shantele's thighs and slipped into her. She felt the young woman's trembling desire. Shantele arched her back and thrust into Monique's strong hand. Monique rocked with her, building Shantele's need, stroking her passion to an exquisite crescendo.
And then she pushed the young woman over the edge into a pulsating explosion of fulfillment. She clutched Shantele's wetness, feeding off the power of each rippling orgasm, letting it fill her, strengthen her, drive her to the heights of her own sexual power, pulling the life energy out of her sexual victim as succubi have done for millennia.
After Shantele collapsed into a deep sleep, her body pale and drained, Monique slipped back out of the bedroom. Only the oddly moaning wind bore witness to her actions.
Monique strolled along the dark alley between Rue de Moyne and St. Charles Avenue. The strength of Shantele coursed through her. She would not find another like her so soon. Such need, such abandon to her secret erotic fantasies. It was like vintage wine, unmet sexual desire building for years.
Her indulgent thoughts were interrupted by a burst of thunder followed by a swirling whirlwind of dirt and leaves. Monique closed her eyes against the stinging wind. When it settled, she opened them again.
"Apologies if I have startled you," said a voice from behind her, deep and sultry.
Monique turned slowly, unwilling to admit that anyone could upset her calm facade. What she saw sent fear racing through her body, tense and exciting. A figure formed out of the darkness. At first just a face, gray, almost pixie-like, were it not for the black eyes offset by glowing red pupils, like pinpoint flames in a black pool of night.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The figure walked out of the shadows of the alley, tall, lithe, with layered indigo hair that danced with the breeze. She, for it was unmistakably female, wore an iridescent, sleeveless top that highlighted strong arms, firm breasts, and a well-toned stomach. Tight, matching pants clung to lean, well-shaped legs.
"My names have no meaning to succubi," she said. "But you may call me Rasta."
Monique's excitement mingled with caution as she watched the enigmatic figure approach. This was no mortal woman that formed out of the wind and dark. The eyes simmered, like hot coals waiting for dry wood, as Rasta appraised Monique. The two stood facing each other. Rasta smiled as the low rumble of thunder echoed overhead.
"Does it satisfy you?" Rasta asked.
Monique frowned. "Does what satisfy me?"
Rasta circled around her, red eyes flickering in the dark. "The women you take, your human toys."
"They nourish me."
Rasta laughed, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. "I did not think so. Not even your young Shantele really satisfied your desire, did she?"
Monique's pulse quickened. "How do you know Shantele?"
Rasta reached out a gray hand toward Monique's cheek, but all the succubus felt was the cool caress of air.
"You felt me there, did you not?" asked Rasta.
"I felt the wind and the coming tropical storm, nothing more."
Rasta smiled, "So you did sense me."
Monique's fear fed her arousal as she stepped closer to Rasta, close enough to feel the woman's cool breath on her face. "What are you?" she asked.
"I am Shedim. I am the wind and the rain. I am the hurricane building over Haiti."
Monique took a step back. "A storm demon?"
Rasta bowed, swinging her graceful arm in mock salute. "That is one of my names."
"What do you want with me?"
Rasta tilted her head, as if considering the question for the first time. "I seek to understand."
"And I seek sexual fulfillment," said Monique, her patience waning.
Rasta ignored her uncivil tone. She circled around Monique, tracing a light, moist breeze through Monique's tightly curled black hair and fluttering sensually through her blouse. A low throbbing rose between Monique's thighs as the storm demon's breeze caressed her hardened nipples. She was the victim now, a new and thrilling sensation.
"Is it rape? What you do to these females?" asked Rasta.
"Never," said Monique. "I take only the willing."
"And the mark you leave changes them."
Monique shrugged. "Liberates them. If they choose to seek a faint echo of what I gave them in the arms of another woman, it's who they always were, beyond the confines of this narrow world."
"Perhaps. And yet it does little for you, besides sustenance." Rasta withdrew her breezy touch, leaving Monique electrified, edgy.
"Such is the curse of the succubi," said Monique, irritably. "Always to hunger and feed, but never to be satisfie." The thought left her moody, spoiling Shantele's power in her. "If that's all, I've more women to visit tonight."
She brushed past Rasta, seeing the storm demon's dark eyes glow white in time to a brilliant flash of lightening. Too late, she wondered how dangerous it would be to anger a storm demon. The trace of lightening burned into her retina as thunder roared overhead. Monique closed her eyes, willing the damage to her sight to heal, to fade. When she opened her eyes, the storm demon was gone. The air felt still and heavy. Monique scanned the dark alley, oddly disappointed.
She walked slowly along the alley toward St. Charles. The faux gas lamps illuminated the quiet street ahead, a weak, yellow glow against the somber darkness. When she stepped out onto St. Charles, the dark sky overhead boiled with distant lightening. Rain would come, pelting, driving rain that would soak to the skin, yet not bring relief from the damp heat of the night. Monique chose her direction and walked down the empty sidewalk, striding between each island of light cast by the modernized gas lamps. It was two full blocks before the wind whispered in her ear again.
"It does not have to be that way," said the wind.
Monique stopped under the branches of a sprawling magnolia tree. The air shimmered around her, but Rasta did not materialize.
"What else is there?" asked Monique.
The wind swirled around her, touching her, lifting the loose ends of her blouse to cool her warm flesh. The air pressed down on her, like strong hands kneading her back and shoulders. A sigh escaped her lips.
"This is what I offer, succubus. A taste of what lies beyond your mortal playthings." Rasta's voice surrounded her, called to her from the wind and the heat.
"Do you offer more than a tease?" asked Monique, her eyes drifting shut as she let Rasta's breezy touch move over her.
Rasta laughed, low and rumbling like far off thunder. "Come with me, Monique. Come into the heart of me, and I will teach you what your body can give you."
"Yes."
Lightening crackled across the night sky. Monique sensed it beneath her closed lids. The air pushed her, spun her. She moved with it, flew with it. Her body strained against the power as Rasta wrapped herself around Monique and carried her beyond the street, beyond New Orleans. They sped through the night, the air whining through her arms and legs. She wanted to scream and cry, to beg, but for release or for more, she did not know.
The wind eased. Monique felt the ground beneath her feet again. She opened her eyes and Rasta stood next to her, gray and iridescent. They stood atop a treeless knoll, looking out onto a white-capped ocean. Waves battered against the sandy cove beneath them. Monique felt the earth tremble with each pounding wave.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"The eye of the storm, my storm," said Rasta.
"A hurricane?"
"Not yet. Just the seed of a tropical storm." Rasta walked around Monique, tracing a very human-like hand along Monique's shoulder and down her back. "But we shall make it more, you and I. Much more."
Monique felt her body thrill to Rasta's cool touch. The air, charged and humid, danced around them. Monique grabbed Rasta's graceful hand, amazed that it felt so solid, so strong. She pulled the storm demon close and wrapped her arms around Rasta. She gazed into black eyes that held the reflection of red flames. Rasta leaned into her, and full, hot lips pressed against Monique's. A tongue urged Monique's lips to part and she opened to the power of Rasta's passion.
The wind picked up as Monique slipped her hand under Rasta's iridescent top. She caressed the cool skin in widening circles, ending when she cupped a firm breast in her palm. The wind moaned. Rasta pushed away. She shimmered, then solidified again without her clothes. She was beautiful. Her skin shone silver in the night. Full breasts dominated her strong body, and below her waist, lay a patch of silky indigo hair. Monique wanted her, wanted to devour that indigo patch. She raised a hand to unbutton her blouse.
"No," whispered Rasta. "That is for me."
Rasta pushed Monique's hand down. The air crackled, came to life. Breezy tendrils brushed along Monique's stomach, caressing, manipulating. Finger-like wisps of air unfastened her top and pulled at her hardened nipples. Her blouse fell back off her shoulders while the tendrils of air pulled at her leather pants. Cool, moist air against the hot flesh of her inner thighs thrilled her. She kicked off the last leg of her pants and stood beside Rasta, so close that she could smell the storm demon's unique scent, like roses heavy with dew.
Rasta pulled her close, pressed her cool body to Monique's hot flesh. Excitement shot through Monique's body. She trembled in Rasta's strong arms as Rasta kissed her, hard, urgent.
"Now, my dark Monique, we will raise our storm."
Wind whipped Rasta's indigo hair around her thin face. The ground glowed under the flash of lightening as it shot across the cloud-heavy night sky. Rasta lifted Monique, turning, spinning in the rising wind. Droplets of rain trailed down Monique's bare back, cool, sensual tracks arousing and enticing her. Rasta lowered her head and took Monique's hard nipple into her mouth. She sucked and nipped, until Monique felt the throbbing of her own moist desire.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes to the rain that pelted down on them. Their wet bodies slid together as the wind and Rasta lifted them higher. Rain, wind, and power beat at Monique's senses as the storm surge crashed the shore below them. Her thighs wrapped around Rasta, and she rocked against the storm demon.
The storm embraced them. Rasta wrapped them in the surging power of the hurricane as it drew the strength of the Atlantic into their passion. Airy fingers traced spirals over Monique's body, as if she lay with a dozen women at once. Rasta stroked her wetness with moist, cool fingers, teasing, slipping over her throbbing desire and then back to Monique's breasts. Rain stung Monique's bare back as Rasta slipped between the folds of her wetness and entered her.
The succubus threw open her arms as Rasta filled her, spiraling, thrusting in rhythm to Monique's driving desire. Monique felt herself contract around Rasta. Tremors built deep within her as the storm demon pulled her higher, pushed harder, drove her unerringly to the highest peak of her need. And then Rasta withdrew her fingers. Monique waited, trusting Rasta's passionate manipulations. She stifled a cry of ecstasy when a whirlwind of moist, hot power thrust inside her. Rasta filled her, sending currents of energy coursing through her body. She felt her climax explode through her as wave upon wave crashed over her. Rasta stroked her and pusher her through each successive climax until Monique begged her to stop.
Rain pelted down on her closed eyes as natural senses returned to Monique. Beyond the wind and the rain, she felt wet grass beneath her naked body. She rolled over, her legs quivering as she tried to raise herself from the ground. She opened her eyes. She knew this place, Audubon Park on St. Charles Avenue. The moss-covered oaks groaned against the power of the hurricane that centered over New Orleans. Where was Rasta?
"I am here, my passionate one," said the wind. "This is what we made, you and I, our storm."
Water streamed down Monique's naked body. She shook, exposed, thrilled. "And what now? Do you stay?"
Tendrils of cool air caressed her cheek. "Like all storms, this must pass, dissolve."
Monique sat up, reaching for the drenched clothes that lay beside her. "Will I see you again?"
Thunder rumbled, like the echo of a laugh. "Of course. This is but the first storm of the season. I must follow the course our storm sets, but when it blows out, I will be back."
"I will be here," said Monique, staring up into the falling rain, searching for one last glimpse of her lover.
The night sky lit up in one final explosion of lightening. Monique shut her eyes. The after image of that flash shaped itself into a beautiful, silver woman, nude, waiting.
"Until the next storm," she whispered.