aegirwrit

[aegirwrit]

The Incubus

You shiver. The thatch roof of your cabin keeps out the snow but does little for the cold. A woodstove can help stave off frostbite, but the aching chill that's set in your bones will only truly yield to a lover's caress.

He'll be here soon.

You can feel his approach. The sound of his footfalls in the crusted snow echo so clearly in your mind that you wonder if its truly your imagination. You pull the comforter up to your chin as you remember his soft voice and the way he lulls you to sleep with whispered words and silver tongue. And the way he looks at you: with those eyes--like a falcon's. When you meet them, everything else seems to disappear. The past is erased, the future is unimaginable. Memories, thoughts, wants, loves, needs. All these you must sacrifice under those watchful eyes. The eyes of a beast.

Tap tap tap.

You jolt awake, glancing around the room in panic. Gone is the roaring woodstove and rustic cabin, replaced with the dull reality of a rattling space heater and poorly insulated studio apartment. You give the heater a punitive kick, blaming it for your rude awakening, and take a sip from your bedside water glass. Eugh--tastes like iron. The filter must need changing again. You grimace as you down the rest of the glass. A parched throat will keep you up all night; the arsenic, manganese, and god-knows-what-else in your water supply is a problem for another day. You grab the phone that lies beside your water glass, and after ten minutes mindlessly scrolling through social media feeds, your rude awakening is nearly forgotten.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Its louder this time, and you know right where the sound is coming from. Ice fills your veins. You snap head towards your bedroom window, convinced you'll meet the eyes of some unthinkable horror before being swept away into the night.

Instead you see a man.

He's leaning against the railing of your fire escape, staring over his shoulder as long, black curls whip in the winter storm that he's quite poorly dressed for. Sickly pale but unblemished skin wraps taut around gaunt flesh and bone. His nudity leaves nothing at all to the imagination, and you must admit that he is quite well proportioned--in all respects. You would almost find him attractive, but the his stark nudity and odd behavior can only really mean one thing: Drugs.

Just when you're about to shout at him to clear off before you call the police, his head snaps back to meet your gaze and show off angular features and...those...eyes...

You've seen those eyes before, night after night, for weeks. They've haunted your dreams with such beautiful complexity that you could never quite bring them to mind while awake. Were they gold, or rich yellow? Were the pupils those of a snake, or of a man? Did they truly whirl and shift with divine absurdity like wheels within wheels? You shake your head: to your mind, those eyes could not belong to something of this earth. They must be the eyes of a devil.

He puts a hand on the window and uses the other to beckon you close. Pupils shift and glimmer, just as they did during many sleepless nights, leaving strange runes as afterimages in your vision. You are powerless to resist, but wouldn't if you could. A closer look at those otherworldly eyes is all you could ever ask for. You reach the window and press your hand to his, feeling the warmth even through two layers of glass.

"May I come in?"

Ha. You nearly laugh. Is that even a question? A gust of frigid air and snow blinds you when it rushes through the open window. When you regain your bearings there's no sign of your visitor. Where could he have gone?

Lithe hands grip your waist from behind and offer an answer to your question. Your lack of panic at the sudden grasp should surprise you. You're too distracted to care as your guest artfully guides you back to your bed. When you reach it, he spins you around like a dance partner, and you meet his eyes again. This time his voice does not implore, it commands.

"Ride me until I am sated."

An unusual way to ask for cowgirl, but you aren't about to refuse.

Throughout the act your eyes never part. Not when you climb on top of him. Not when you welcome him into you like a warm bed to a frigid traveler; even as you bring your lips to his and moan into his tongue you remain transfixed. He tastes like cherry smoke and overripe fruit. Otherworldly. Grasping hands claw at your ass as he begins to match your efforts with his own thrusts; though timid at first, his vigor seems to grow with every rise and fall of your hips. He's no longer the emaciated figure that lurked on your balcony. Pallid skin now boasts a healthy glow and encloses a physique of dense, rippling muscle. He flashes a faint smirk when he sees you looking. When he rises from the bed with you still bouncing on his pole, you can't help but giggle. When large, batlike wings unfurl from behind him, you scream in terror.

Or you would, were it not for the calming embrace of those gilded, devilish eyes.

"Shhhhhh."

You're outside now, soaring through the storm but you can't feel the cold. The only thing known to you is the bliss you feel and the demonic partner who seems to bask in it. He rams himself into you with ferocity and desire that you never received from a prior lover. You will likely never find it again, but your thoughts are not on the future or the past. They are only on the moment. The two of you soar through the storm, towards a warm glow that shines from the clouds above. As a beam of light cascades over you, a slight twitch from below signals that the final summit is nigh. You can't hold it off any longer. You come.

Its different from anything you've ever felt. You get the similar waves of blissful contracture, but they don't ebb away, instead merging together into one long stream of ecstasy. Your lover is not far behind.

"No, no! So close this time I could almost see it!"

See what? Before he can explain, he loses his composure; a final thrust slams his hips against yours as he floods you with an ungodly load. His shuts his eyes tight in ecstasy, and the spell upon you breaks. The two of you plummet towards the earth as cum leaks out of you. Vision fading, your last thought is a silent prayer that you land in the bay, hiding any evidence of your sinful tryst. It goes unanswered.

You awake in a small, cramped room under harsh fluorescent lights. Still half-asleep and suffering a familiar chill, you reach down to pull up the covers. Someone gasps.

"You had us pretty worried there for a minute, hun!"

A doctor perched to your right puts a hand on your arm and begins to fill in the gaps. You were found nearly buried in the snow, unconscious. He asks you if you have any medical conditions that cause fainting. You don't. He seems puzzled.

A nurse to your left stares at a monitor with rapt attention while another rubs a device across your stomach.

"Good news is, the baby's fine."

Phew, that's a relief.

Wait. You're pregnant?!

[aegirwrit]

Peering through the thick brambles, you spy a band of drunk satyrs in erotic disarray.

Seven. Eight. Thirteen.

There must be dozens.

You see them everywhere you look. Several nap beneath an upturned barrel, their smiling lips stained purple with wine. Twenty paces left, at the edge of a small pond, rests another group of incapacitated satyrs. Some of this lot lay entwined with water nymphs; a musky smell in the air alongside a half-dozen slimy puddles paint a depraved picture of their recent activity. When one of the water nymphs shifts in her sleep and a stream of wasted lust leaks from between her legs, your perverse suspicions are made fact.

You feel your face flush as your heart pounds ever faster. It would be easy enough to act on your arousal: to slip your fingers into your sodden panties, stifle your moans, and enjoy a glimpse of heaven while hidden in the underbrush. But you have other, more important matters to attend to.

Long narrow stalk, dense clusters of yellow flowers. It has to be here somewhere.

After what feels like an eternity of searching, your eyes widen when you spy the telltale blossoms surrounding one of the smaller napping satyrs. They widen more when you realize just how many of them there truly are! You blink hard to dispel what must be some trick of the light: and nearly shout in joy when your miracle remains.

Silphium is renowned for its aphrodisiac effects. Or it was, until the lust of the desperate saw it harvested to extinction. Finding a single blossom would make you the talk of the city. The large patch before you would make you and your apothecary the stuff of legend. Princes and queens would flock to your services. You might even exchange your cozy-but-cramped hut for a laboratory in a king's castle or, dare you even think it, be made a lady with her own parcel of royal land.

Stay focused, Lamina, you remind yourself. You have to go out there and get them first.

You steel your resolve and begin the painfully slow journey out of the brambles and into the clearing. After more than a few pricks and scratches, you make it out in one piece, though the same can't be said of your cloak.

Today of all days you forget to button the clasp, you mutter to yourself as you turn back to work it free. A voice stops you dead in your tracks.

"You know I could smell you, right?"

Shit. You turn around slowly to find that the satyr resting on your prize now stands mere feet away. How did you let him sneak up on you? Heart pounding in your chest, you size up him up as you decide whether to flee or fight. He stands half a head taller than you--a little above average for a human, but a great deal shorter than his brethren. Lithe muscle weaves around slender arms and torso; you imagine his legs would look similar were they not covered in a thick layer of brown fur. Could you take him in a fight? If you could it wouldn't matter. You'd attract the attention of other, larger foes. Could you run? Doubtful. His legs are built for dashing through thorns and briars, and yours aren't. You gulp when your eyes cross the throbbing erection between them. That's built for something, too.

If you can't run, and you can't fight, what are you to do? You wrack your brain for ideas.

"I know what you want. The flowers. The ones that left me like this-"

The satyr gestures to his turgid, dripping cock.

"And them like that," he continues, pointing out the well-fucked and leaking water nymphs on the other side of the clearing. He opens his mouth to speak then snaps it shut in a failed attempt to stifle a whimper.

"All I wanted was to finally...hnnng. They got theirs, and what do I get? Nothing. Desperation and cruel-"

The satyr bucks his hips and spits a large wad of precum from his aching prick.

"-denial."

"If you grant me release: if you let me prove my virility with your body, rut you, breed you, and fill you, I would gladly see you rip every one of these cursed weeds from the ground," says the satyr, gesturing to the flowers around him.

You can't help but smirk. The humble cock, ever the downfall of man. In his desperate state you doubt this will take more than a minute or two; you'll be home brewing doses of aphrodisiac before sundown with time to spare for a hot bath and a cup of lavender tea. The choice is easy one. You reach your hand out to flick one of his goat-like ears.

"You know satyr, maybe flowers are the way to a girl's heart."

His face flushes crimson at your touch.

"We s-shouldn't here. Too close to the rest of them. If they wake up and see you here, well, you'd go home empty-handed and sore-bottomed."

The two of you move quickly to pick and stow the silphium as the satyr tells you of a nearby cave, one that he swears is both safe and comfortable enough for what you have planned. You have no better ideas to offer, so the two of you depart.

Small-talk seems unnecessary given the circumstances, but it does help pass the time. Your conversation reveals that the satyr is not a member of the troupe you found him with, at least, not usually. He was taken on as an herbalist only days ago, but inexperience reared its ugly head when he was asked to brew a lust potion out of the silphium patch you found him in. He knew of poultices and salves, not of potent aphrodisiacs. One petal is enough for an hour of fun: he used enough to stiffen a small army. You can find humor in the oversight, but he seems genuinely upset. He needn't worry; these things are a part of learning the trade. You relay a few embarrassing stories from your own apprenticeships, and soon the two of you are doubled over in laughter. The rest of the journey seems to take but an instant.

"We're almost here," says the satyr, as he veers left into a patch of woods. You would be hard-pressed to follow if he wasn't holding your hand so tight. After a few hundred paces, the dense trees give way to a cliffside pond fed by a small waterfall.

"There's the entrance, just up ahead."

He notes your quizzical glance.

"Its on the other side. You have to pass through," says the satyr, gesturing to the waterfall.

"But my clothes-"

"Fuck the clothes! You've already seen my...everything," he grumbles gesturing to his still-hard cock.

He makes a fair point.

A wanting gaze rests across you as you cast aside your cloak and garments but when you get to your panties, he turns away.

"What?" You giggle.

"I've already seen your everything after all. Don't you want a peek?"

"And waste my seed before we've even started? Just get in the damn cave," he replies.

He must be truly desperate.

Brightly glowing moss illuminates a cave that is much larger than expected. On one side is a fully stocked but roughly constructed bookshelf. You recognize a few of the texts from your own studies, though some look a little worse for wear. Its surprising he got his hands on them at all.

The satyr rolls his eyes when he sees you stare.

"Is it so surprising? We're not all fuck-hungry brutes. ."

He pushes you towards a hammock tied between two gnarled roots. You fall into it theatrically and pull him atop you, meeting his lips in a passionate embrace. Soft hands caress your cheek as yours tease at his back, fingers etching little circles. He's a better kisser than you would have thought. You feel his dick jerk against your thigh, as if you to remind you why you're here.

"Are you ready?"

You blush. Surprisingly few care enough to ask.

"I've been ready since the clearing."

Whether its nerves or inexperience, he struggles to line himself up with you. After the second failed attempt and frustrated whimper, you take matters into your own hands. Literally. You rub the tip to get it as stiff as possible and slowly shift your weight forward to guide him inside. The sensation is just too much for him. His legs shake at the overwhelming pleasure and then give out completely, leaving him draped across you with his face buried in your neck. This won't be the rough, brutish fucking you anticipated. The satyr whimpers.

"I think I'm going to-"

You had planned on making this a brief event, but there's quick and then there's quick, quick. With your legs planted on his hips, you push him off and out of you with a wet pop. He stumbles back into his bookshelf and sinks to the floor, panting heavily.

"Why...?

"If you really want to "prove your virility," you ought to learn to let things build first."

You jump down from the hammock and saunter over to him with slow, meandering footsteps that let your hips swing wider than they could possibly need to.

"It'll feel so much better when you finally-"

You lean close to him and whisper in his ear.

"Flood me."

He reaches for you but you stand up too fast, stepping back as he pounds a fist into the bookshelf behind him in frustration. A notebook slips off and bounces off his head before hitting the floor. He looks away in a huff before meeting your gaze again.

"Eeugh. Fine. What do you propose I do to pass the time?"

You bring a hand to your chin and narrow your eyes in feigned consideration.

"Hmm. I do fancy myself a bit yarn-spinner..."

Pacing between the hammock and bookshelf, you regale him with a story from your early days as an apprentice of Madame Zahara. When she had you fetch wolfsbane from a creek five miles away to halt a lord's monthly transformation, she couldn't have known you had harvested some the day before. You arrived back earlier than expected, stumbling upon the ghastly sight of your teacher's arsehold spread on a werewolf's-

"Oh, for- I'm not listening to this!" Shouts the satyr, cock jumping erratically.

You ignore him and continue, describing the way Zahara smirked at you: as if she was daring you to watch. Come closer, dear. I need you for this part. She had you chew the wolfsbane in your mouth. Quicker absorption that way. You spat the wad of chewed leaves and spit into the werewolf's foaming mouth, watching with wide eyes as he shifted from large, muscular beast into a portly, middle aged man with a slightly bulbous nose. As he went limp, his softening cock fell out of your masters ass followed by a deluge of wasted seed.

When you finish your story, you tap your foot against the satyr's, bringing his gaze back to yours.

"Not paying attention? Let me start over."

The words hardly leave your mouth before the satyr shoots to his feet, cock harder than ever, and lifts you off the ground.

"You'll leak for days when I'm done with you," he whispers, holding you over his cock with trembling legs. When he slides you onto him, there's no hesitation, no mind paid to your wishes; he knows what you want, and what you want is him. His cock fills you as deep as you can be filled. When he pulls out to leave just the tip inside you, its only to pound you full again. When he breaks your kiss, its only to gasp for air and kiss anew. Now's your chance to goad him on.

"Come on now, earn the right to seed me."

"Fuck it," he mutters, redoubling his grip on your asscheeks. His thrusts grow feverish--his tempo unsteady--in a desperate bid to glean the most pleasure from every minute with you. Slick arousal seeps from you and coats your thighs. You've never been like this before, but then again, you've never felt so wanted. His efforts stoke the heat that's been building within you since the clearing. You pull him close, as if to brace yourself against the waves of euphoric pleasure that crash over you. Its a pointless effort; when you feel those blissful spasms wrack your body you're left writhing in his grasp. You feel your toes curl as your pleasured cries echo around the cave. Legs wrapped around his torso, you hold him fast with an impossibly tight grip. The satyr opts for a deep, loving kiss to fill the void left by the absence of his thrusting.

When the rhythmic clenching of your honeypot slow, the satyr returns to his frenetic pace. Is he trying to impress you, spur you to another climax, or both? His efforts have an unintended consequence. The dewy sweat that beads on his arms showcases his drive, but costs him his grip on your ass. The sudden shift leaves him stumbling like a newborn billygoat in a hopeless attempt to keep the both of you upright. You would have landed on the hard cave floor were it not for a familiar bed of woven linen. Silently thanking the hammock for its service, you take advantage of the impromptu change switch to missionary by splaying your legs wide and wrapping your arms around the satyrs neck to bring your lips to his ear.

"Do it. Now."

When he pulls away in shock, you meet him with a coquettish half-smile. Did he forget what he was here for? This was the price he set.

"You deserve this. Fill me."

In a flash he's inside you as deep as can be, hips on hips, with balls pressed against your ass. He takes a few shallow breaths before your pull him into another passionate kiss.

Your teeth shake as he moans. That's the first clue. The second is the warmth that spreads inside you, not to mention the rhythmic twitching. Its so much: more than you saw spill from Madame Zahara, and far more than you've ever had inside you. Spasmodic thrusts let some spill around the seal to soak the hammock but more jets of desperate need quickly replace all that's lost and more. He pulls away from your kiss to let jumbled words pour forth.

"I can't-nnnnngg-stop."

That's a silphium overdose for you. He'll be shooting blanks for the next month. As for today, well, that's an entirely other story. After what has to be over four dozen hot gouts of cum, he collapses against you, panting heavily. You aren't sure when his orgasm ends and sleep begins, but when he begins to softly snore, you decide to extricate yourself from underneath him. You shimmy your way out from under him until you only remain bound at the hips. When you sever that final connection, a near river of wasted lust pours out from between your legs.

Shit, you murmur, looking at the puddle on the hammock. You hope that doesn't stain, though it would be a small price to pay for the bliss you shared. As the setting sun casts its orange glow into the cave, you wonder if you really ought to head back so soon. After all, what's the warmth of a bath when compared to the warmth of a lover's touch. You roll over to take your place beside him, wrapping your arms around him to pull him close. As you nuzzle his neck, you think about the silphium, your work, and your stifling little cabin. There's more out there to see and feel. What if every day could be like today? Full of incredible discovery, fun, and flippancy.

That settles it. The satyr wants to learn your healing arts, and you want to see grander things. It's a match made in heaven. So what if you're a little young to take an apprentice--who else will teach him? You drift into a restful slumber as you ponder what chapter of Carnal Salves and Balms to start him on.