Jack Riel lay alone and almost naked in a bed that wasn’t his. Unlike his, this one was large and comfortable and wrapped in embroidered sheets. Plump pillows piled against the bottom of the antiqued bronze headboard. One of the sheets stretched over him, offering him the only protection he would have for what was about to come through the door. Beneath the sheet, he wore a pair of fresh-from-the-plastic silk boxers, also not his – not before today anyway. Even under the sheet and the thin, clingy fabric of the boxers he felt exposed. They’d asked him to shave this morning, everything below his neck – everything – and now he felt cold and raw.
The room wasn’t like his apartment, either. His was cluttered with tools, clothes, and computers, but this was open and airy and fake. Token furniture – a nightstand with an old-fashioned alarm clock, a floor lamp not plugged in, an ornate but empty chest of drawers – and random framed artwork broke up otherwise blank walls. The windows were open, but the ‘outside’ was a pair of blue light panels and a slow fan that caught the curtains in an eerie, silent breeze.
He was alone in the bed – for now – but not in the room. In the far corner by the door, a dark-skinned woman called Bobbie slipped her shoulders into a steadicam rig and flicked on the power. The light meter on the rig ticked impatiently at her until she fiddled with the dials. On the other side of the bed’s headboard, hidden behind the pillows in a cubby cut into the wall to fit her, a brunette called Sandra tested her camera position for the dozenth time. “Testing” meant pushing it up beneath Riel’s pillow like a rude middle finger until he rolled out of the way and it took the place of his head. She had a streak of cruelty in her; he’d caught her grinning the first time she connected the bell lens with the back of his skull. Bobbie and Sandra both wore the kind of loose black sweats meant to hide them from cameras or reflections, but their hair and makeup were anything but casual. Their glances at him were narrow-eyed and quick, and made him feel like a stranger.
Jonas, at least, was a friend. He stood beside the bed, poking at his tablet to fine-tune the lights or test the mic-dots painted onto the wall. With a swipe of his stylus he dropped the light level another 20 lumens; Bobbie hissed at him, but now the room was dark enough to make the shadows eerie instead of empty.
Jonas glanced down at the bed. “Ready, Jack?”
Jonas was as unlike Riel as this room was unlike his apartment. Where Riel was short, stocky, and corded with muscle from the last four years of after-dark activities, Jonas was tall and lean. Riel favored off-the-rack jeans and t-shirts when he hadn’t been tricked into silk boxers, but Jonas wore a satin-wool sweater vest over a tailored white shirt. His khakis had been pressed, his shoes polished. Riel’s features were small and dark, his hair thick and wiry; Jonas’ hair had been professionally styled and highlighted, and his handlebar mustache was neatly trimmed. Jonas had maybe 15 years on him.
The older man poked at the tablet and asked again, “You ready?”
“Ummm… I don’t think so. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Are you backing out on me now? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be scared.” Jonas grinned and scratched his mustache. “Not of her.”
“I’m not scared. I’m just… not ready. Aren’t I supposed to be ‘at alert’?” He returned the grin lamely. “Don’t I get a fluffer or something?”
Jonas lifted the sheet for a glimpse at the silk shorts and snorted.
With an indignant howl Riel yanked the the sheet back down over himself. “Fuck, man! Don’t do that! It’s not decent.”
“Decent? The whole world will be seeing an awful lot of indecent in another day when this is dubbed and online.” He laughed. “A fluffer, of all things. Haven’t you seen one of these films before?” He turned toward the almost-closed door and motioned toward the muffled voices just outside. “She’s your fluffer, boy-o. You’re not supposed to be hard until she’s ready for you to be. And when she is ready, you will be. In the meantime, just act.”
The voice outside the grew louder and more agitated, to the point of yelling. “A cape?! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Jonas tucked the tablet under his arm, pulled the sheet flat again, and backed toward the door. “Well, that sounds like a summons for the director-slash-producer, eh? Here’s your direction, kid: you’re asleep, or passing for it. Light blink is the cue for action, But you just stay asleep until she’s got you pinned, no matter what you feel or hear. After that, keep it as real as you want, but don’t talk. Grunt, moan, but don’t talk. And let her win, for God’s sake. That’s what this is about.” He slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind him. His voice interrupted the others outside to take on a soothing, conciliatory tone. “You’re right, Jacquie; you’re right. The cape’s too much. We’ll ax the cape.”
Riel smirked, but as the minutes passed in the dark, silent room, his face and body relaxed. His eyes closed and he cleared his mind.
He felt the light blink through his eyelids, and again there was silence.
Then the door creaked open like it had never been oiled.
Without lifting his head, Riel cracked his eyelids. The door was wide, and she stood in it. The room was tinted that dark blue that passes for a cliche of night, but she was so pale she seemed luminescent. Her rose-white face was stark beneath her makeup – beneath her garnet red lips and the heavy black shadows surrounding her eyes, following the shape of her brows. Curling red hair fell around her face and shoulders, hiding her ears. A choker with a silver skull at the snap squeezed her neck, and beneath that more bright bare skin – her fleshy chest and shoulders – spilled out of a black corset that scooped only just enough of her breasts to cover her nipples and create cleavage. Shoulder-length gloves of the same black nearly met the corset; they were tight enough to pinch her plump arms at their hems.
Below the curving line of her corset and gloves, purple and black fabrics faded into the shadows. He could tell she wore a very short skirt and tall boots only because her black nylons gleamed over the 18 visible inches of her thighs; he couldn’t make out any other details. Behind her a pair of black and purple bat wings unfolded as she cleared the door; they stretched up to the ceiling and beat the air once before folding neatly behind her again.
Bobbie circled her with the camera, but she didn’t seem to notice – her eyes were locked forward, fixed to his face, burning into him. They were unusual somehow, her eyes – enthralling in a worryingly literal sense of the word. He snapped his own eyes shut – he told himself to prevent Bobbie’s camera from catching him peeking, but it was a relief to break the stare. He checked his breathing: still slow and regular, just like a sleeper’s should be.
The air in the room thrummed once, twice, and a weight sunk into the foot of the bed. The weight shifted, then again, and the sheet tugged tightly down on either side of his legs. She crawled up him, a hand and knee pressing into the mattress on either side of him. Her nylons and gloves made scratching sounds as they chafed the sheet. If she was breathing, he couldn’t hear it. She sat back once she was at the top of the bed, straddling his hips, and a gloved hand – slick and cold like satin – closed over his mouth.
His eyes flicked open groggily, then went wide with surprise and fright as he acted the moment. He gasped, even. Her eyes peered down into his from only a foot above, and he realized what was so odd about them: they were a solid ivory white, pierced only by a tiny, depthless black dot. She had no hint of an iris – not even the thin ridge of a contact lens. The black shadow around her eyes wrinkled as she smiled, and thick red lips curled back to dimple her cheeks.
Bobbie and her satellite camera slid back into the shadows as Sandra pressed at the back of his head, pushing him aside. The succubus looming above him – that was her role in this little story – didn’t miss a beat. Her glove shifted to cover the bottom half the glass camera bell, and she peered just as intently into the lens as she brought a finger to her lips, demanding that the camera, as Riel’s stand-in, remain perfectly quiet.
The camera bell slipped back beneath the pillow as the succubus lifted his wrists to the headboard to bind them in gauzy strips ‘conveniently’ pre-tied to the bars. He thought the outline had called for her to tie him loosely, or even to just wrap his wrists and give him something to hold on to, but she pulled the bindings tight and cinched his skin in the knot. He winced and bit his lip to keep silent; in response she grinned cruelly and savored his stifled pain. Her lips curled wider, her teeth parted, and for the first time she bared glistening fangs, which glowed like neon in the bluey darkness. He made a point of gasping, of blinking in stunned disbelief. It was the appropriate reaction, since it was what he had really done the first time those four eon-years ago.
Once he was bound she slid off him, rocking back to sit on the mattress beside him, and with a flick of one glove she flung back the sheet. At the sight of his silk boxers she let out a delighted hiss, and Bobbie’s camera drew close again to focus on the glint at the needle-sharp tips of her teeth. The lightest brush from those fangs would slice skin like butter, but her tongue slickered between her lips without danger. Her fingers reached out slowly, casting a nosferatu shadow over the bulge forming in his boxers. The at the tip of each finger the glove had been finished with long pointed nails, almost claws, which added to the effect. She grabbed at the bulge, fondling it through the shorts, stroking and purring while the satin of her gloves swished past the silk of his boxers. He didn’t need to act now: his head rocked back and he moaned; his arms strained at the bindings and his back arched, pushing his hips toward her. She laughed and lowered herself toward him, lips parting to bare fangs as her mouth closed over the bulge.
Jack’s breath caught. His body had gone rigid against the expectation of those sharp fangs slicing through the silk, slicing into the tender flesh beneath, of searing pain and spilling blood. But she only nibbled. Her fangs were blunted and gentled; his boxers became soaked not with blood but with the saliva from her kneading tongue.
Still he couldn’t relax, though his hips still strained upward. Even through the pleasure – through the rigid physical yearning to feel the wetness of her mouth directly – was the frightening knowledge that she could turn on him in an instant. But she was professional: he was hard and ready and anxious for more. When Sandra’s camera pushed up to steal his view of the her face, he groaned in frustration. The succubus locked her weird eyes to the lens and swiped her tongue maddeningly slowly over the silk. Her cool glove slipped beneath the elastic band of the boxers and squeezed his shaft, thrusting it up through the gate in the crotch and – oh! – her wet mouth closed over him. He flinched and shivered. He had known to expect her mouth to be cold – room temperature, really, though she felt like she had been sucking on ice – but it had been long enough to shock him again. The cameras whizzed and whirred, even hovering over his head to capture his rolled eyes and gasps, while she traced long, deliberate stripes along the length of his shaft and flicked her tongue against his head. Her lips closed over him and she slid down, a fang slipping against either side of his cock until his head reached the back of her throat and she swallowed. When she tongued him free a string of pre-cum stretched delicately from her lips to his head; the cameras zoomed into focus as she kissed it away.
He was really ready – not just anxious but desperate – to be taken into her mouth again, but she left him to quiver in the open air. Bobbie had pulled back and Sandra had retreated behind the pillows, and Riel knew enough to realize that meant it was her turn. Her attention had moved up to his stomach, which she kissed and nibbled with even more interest than she had shown his cock; she moaned with delight and squirmed beside him, thighs squeezing and twisting. For several minutes her tongue and pointed fingertips skipped over the waves of his abs; she nipped at the bulges of muscle and traced the ridge of his belly button before continuing up to his chest.
Her eyes – even with the huge wings absently spreading and and stretching above them, were what held his attention. They flicked frequently up to his face while she savored him, alternately passionate and teasing, and as she crested his pecs, claw-tips finger-walking in advance of her kisses, her eyes locked to his for a long moment before drifting lower, down to his neck. It was as if she’d realized for the first time he had one. She moved more purposefully, only pausing a brief moment to nurse at his nipple before her lips skittered up to his collarbone. She stopped to hover, almost uncertainly, an inch from his neck. Bobbie’s camera drew in close, capturing the quivering anticipation in her lips as the pulled back from her teeth, catching the glisten on her tongue as it tested her again-sharp fangs. She tilted her her face to fit beneath his jaw-line and lowered her mouth slowly to place only a tender, rose-bud kiss in the softest part of his neck.
Her head rose above the horizon of his chin like a red-lipped moon, and their eyes locked again as she pressed her lips to his, repeating the kiss from his neck. She didn’t blink; she didn’t look away, and he found he could do no differently; she controlled him. Gradually her gentle kiss became more forceful, more lustful – her lips opened to surround and draw in his, her tongue flicked, and she sucked the air from his lungs. She caught him behind the head and pulled him toward her, lifting him from the mattress until he was straining against the gauzy bindings, his arm pulled back at an angle in reflection of her extended wings. She threw a leg over him and sat on his stomach, then slipped her arms further behind him and squeezed, pressing him down between her breasts. He would have kissed her there, but his shoulders burned from the strain of her arms, and she held him too tight to move. From the sounds of the cameras and pressure of her chin above his head, he thought she was licking her lips or baring her fangs in full light, promising the camera what was to come.
Then she released him enough for her mouth to find his again and her tongue – her cold tongue – thrust greedily between his teeth. She lured his tongue back out with teasing flicks and sucking kisses until their mouths were apart and only the tips of their tongues twisted against each other. Suddenly he was stuck, tongue thrust out – in one swift move she had pinched his tongue between two fingers and caught it. She let him fall back to the bed, then pressed his tongue down against his lower lip, holding it in place with one finger until he realized she meant for him to leave it that way. Her weight shifted from his stomach, sliding forward until she was kneeling above his head.
Her wings fluttered, and the shadow of her skirt passed over his face. For a brief moment he had a glimpse of pale flesh – her nylons ended in lacy elastic bands at the top of her thighs, and she wore nothing else beneath her skirt but a tuft of red hair – but Sandra’s camera pushed rudely into the way. The succubus gracefully straddled them both before lowering her bare flesh against the glass surrounding the camera and rubbing against it, but as soon as the camera retreated she caught his forehead and angled him into the plump of her crotch.
For the next few minutes he didn’t see much but the shadow of her tight, hiked-up skirt, though she occasionally pulled the fabric out of the way to give the camera a glimpse of his his watering eyes, or released the clamp of her thighs to let him breath. He licked when she rubbed against his lips, pressing his tongue between the cool folds of her labia, and often she would pressed back, rubbing harder until she shifted and started again. Gloved fingers pulled up the edge skirt to find and stroke her clit. Her other hand clutched the headboard or his forehead for leverage. Her previously cold flesh drew the heat from his mouth and face, and as she grew warmer she became more aroused – pressing her weight into him, grinding into his lips and tongue. Coquettish moans and sighs began to become more frequent, and the salty tang of her juices seeped into her vagina. He sucked greedily at them, and she spasmed and gasped and bounced on his jaw.