Incubus

It had been a bad month for Shelley. The break up had affected her badly, more so because she was still unsure why it had happened. She was hurt because, while she had thought things were going so well, they obviously were not and she had not known. It is difficult, when you believe that you can read someone like a book, to discover that their emotions are written in a language that you could never understand.

The cure was simple. Work, work and more work. Plenty of work for good nurses and Shelley was a good nurse. Shelley cared and if caring for others meant that she could care just a little less for herself, at this time, that suited her fine. When she hurt a bit less inside, she would take the time to work through those feelings.

The conference had been, however, a bad idea. Shelley had, in the past, attended many of these events. She had found them, usually, not only informative, but also very convivial and social. There would usually be a number of delegates staying at the same hotel and, very often, it would give her opportunities to make new friends or renew old acquaintances. This time it was different: the subject matter was orientated far more towards management and administration; the attendees were a different type of people to those which Shelley was familiar with and, through an unfortunate booking, her hotel was some distance away and she seemed the only person from the conference staying there.

So it was that Shelley arrived back early at the hotel and alone. Then she had a piece of luck. In the hotel lobby she met a man, older than her, much older and also checking into the hotel, alone on business. He was friendly, pleasant and charming with an old world courtesy – a gentleman. It seemed natural for them to share their evening meal together and, for the duration of that meal, Shelley was, for once, able to forget her troubles. The wine helped.

It was a pleasant evening with pleasant company. Her companion said goodbye to her most graciously at her door with a kiss on the back of her hand, which Shelley found quite enchanting. The thought of inviting him in and seeing how things might progress certainly occurred to her, but that seemed like pushing a relatively brief encounter just a little too far. She though he might also be shocked and she didn't want to spoil the impression she believed she had made with him.

Getting ready for bed, she began to regret being alone in her single room. Dressed only in a most revealing nightie, she had the sense of an opportunity lost. In the mirror, she knew she looked good and longed to be seen and to arouse a man in her room, in her bed, in her arms and, finally and most desirably, to feel him aroused and released deep inside her.

She sighed, settling down within her bed to sleep. When she had shut the door of the hotel room, there had been a comforting 'click' as the lock engaged but, ever conscious of being a woman alone, she had locked the door again from the inside. It was dark and quiet inside her room and she felt tired – the wine she had taken with the evening meal had relaxed her and, in nearly no time at all, she had fallen fast asleep.

* * * * *

Shelley awoke, sometime in the night. It was dark and difficult to tell what time it might be. Waking in a strange room she felt disorientated, the shadows unfamiliar to her. Slowly, as her sleepy mind began to make sense of the subtle differences in the dark shapes she could see, she became aware of one shape that was not right ... that should not be there.

Down at the foot of the bed there appeared to be the outline of a figure, dark and still in the night. Shelley held her breath, listening, but could only hear the sound of her own heart beating. She wished it would be quiet: she was not afraid, but she was very very unsure and did not wish to draw attention to herself by the slightest sound or movement.

The continued silence and stillness reassured her a little, but also seemed to cast a spell over the situation. Perhaps she was experiencing something personal and private and there was no one else in the room, just her and her imagination. She began to believe that her mind was just creating from it's own fears and uncertainties, an illusion from the shadows and this was just a trick of the poor, almost exhausted, light. She felt more confident, allowing herself to breath easier and her mind started turning again, exploring her feelings. Now she knew that it could not be a man, she began imagining to herself that it was. Who was he? What was he doing here? Did he know I was in here? The thought of a man, dark and unknown, in her bedroom, with her dressed only in the flimsiest of nighties and so defenceless beneath the sheets was exciting in a dangerous kind of way. Perhaps he wanted her?

And then the shadow moved and her heart missed a beat.

It moved not suddenly, not even very noticeably and not in any way that made it more human in appearance - no arms appeared in the shape, and the shape itself did not change. It just slowly began to sink, lowering quietly towards the foot of the bed. Like a man, kneeling.

Shelley's heart, which had calmed after it's initial shock, started beating faster again. No harm had yet befallen her and she had stayed quiet. Certainly there had been no sudden threatening movements - no sudden movements at all. Perhaps this man would come and go, believing her to be asleep, and in the morning, when she awoke, she would find something missing (to be sure, there was nothing of any great value here) and would report it to the Hotel as people did and they would be nice and apologetic and would give her a form to fill in and that would be that. All she had to do was stay asleep.

And then she felt the bedclothes at the foot of the bed lift.

'Oh No!', she thought. 'This can't be happening.'

Stay asleep.

She felt his fingers first on the inside of her ankles: a cool, but not unpleasant touch against her bedwarmed flesh. It was soft and gentle. More gentle pressure parted her legs and she felt warm breath against her inner calf. She found it difficult to believe that he, if it was a he, could still think she was still asleep, but she felt it unlikely now that any harm was intended towards her … maybe quite the reverse. Not sure if she was willing, not sure whether to be unwilling would be a good idea. She had to believe it was a man, but she could not be completely sure.

She lay still, but less worried now about appearing asleep. Now she stayed quiet, not wanting to startle him, afraid he might stop were she to make a noise. She felt a soft kiss on the inside of her left knee, towards the back – it tickled a bit and made her open her legs wider. No one had kissed her there before. She started an encouraging moan, but converted it to a sleepy sigh before it could be properly discovered.

She was going to wait and see what happened. She had a deliciously exciting idea of just what that might be – the fear, although most culpably present, seemed to spice the situation more agreeably than she would have expected. There was still a dream quality that had not yet been broken. She had a half-belief that this was, indeed, some kind of dream and that some sudden noise or movement on her part would shatter it – she was not sure she wanted that to happen.

Of course, if her mysterious lover continued in this way, he must soon arrive at her pussy. She thought of that pink little target between her legs and felt it moisten with her anticipation. She was wearing nothing under her nightie – thinking of her unwitting foresight pleased her. She thought of how he had come to her in the darkness and why he had to hide so. Perhaps he was ugly, deformed. Shelley started to think about a nine-inch tongue and got wetter.

And then she felt his tongue, just above her knee on the inside of her thigh a warm wet touch, which she imagined to be the tip. Slowly it moved up to the middle of her left thigh and then paused. She felt a soft kiss at the point where the tongue had stopped and then another kiss on the corresponding position on her left thigh … and then the tongue again, moving higher. She felt his hands moving along the top of her legs. She felt herself weakly surrendering to the situation.

As he reached her crotch, she felt his thumbs move down along the crease where her legs joined the flesh framing her moistening slit. Again pressure opened her legs wider and soundlessly she complied, now feeling his warm breath entering her intimate openness. Oh, so moist! So very very ready!

But he paused. Shelley waited, expecting to feel his mouth pressed up against her wet vaginal opening, longing for his tongue to penetrate her slick slippery hole. The quiet anticipation in the darkness of this strange man's actions was almost unbearable. Why was he waiting? 'Oh Please!', she thought and moaned quietly once in frustration.

That seemed to do it. Suddenly she felt his mouth pressed against her mound, his lips moving against her flesh trying to uncover the entrance to her hot moist interior. It was not difficult, she opened up with a grateful release, offering up her secret juices to this unknown lover and felt his mouth take her in the darkness beneath the covers. Soft and wet and eager, she felt her inner substance, her heat and moisture taken and consumed hungrily by the unseen face between her thighs. As her pussy opened up, so did her eyes … and her mouth … and her sudden awareness that this was not a dream!

This felt less like a man … more like a driven animal seeking sustenance. She could not doubt the reality of the thirst that he had for her. There was less attention to her swollen clitty than she would normally like, but this was not a normal encounter and the tongue working inside her was most voracious, excavating deeply and the apparently accidental, but quite frequent, brushing of that swollen nub seemed somehow so much more exciting than any deliberate concentrated act. Small orgasmic pulses hit her nervous system.

It was wild. She moaned and writhed not caring anymore who the intruder may now be. She knew she was being taken by some wild beast, manshaped, but not driven by normal lusts. This was just too good and she was lost in the erotic magic of the moment and the personal tremors and sensations shivering her body. Despite the very real presence between her legs, the silence and the darkness in the hotel room in which she knew she should be alone made this seem a private thing, some kind of involuntary masturbation.

Whooo! Suddenly a bout of concentrated sucking and licking of her hitherto neglected and oh so aroused and sensitive clitoris moved Shelley into another phase of physical pleasure, orgasming out of any remaining illusions that this could be a dream. So aroused, in fact, it was almost more than she could take and she was relieved to feel the tongue pass over the bud, out of her slit and into the well groomed triangle of pussy fur.

It was still sometime, however, before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to think about what was happening to her. She moved her hands down over his body, moving up over hers. His tongue and mouth kissed and licked over her lower stomach, the tip of his tongue dipping into her navel. She ran her fingers through the hair on his head, full, short and soft, down to his shoulders, broad manly shoulders. 'It is a man!', she thought. His hands she could feel gripping her hips, pulling his body up between her legs on top of her.

The muscles of his upper back felt fit and toned, she moved her hands down his back feeling the strength of the stranger who was ravishing her so anonymously. Unknowing the who and why, she knew that she was going to let him do whatever he wanted.

His tongue licked the valley of her breasts, a gentle kiss and then the lips moved sideways up the curve of her breast towards her left nipple.

She could feel his hips now between her legs, opening her wider still. Her imagination saw his cock, thick and long, swollen with lust, the head thick and slippery with oozing precum homing in on her wet open and exposed vagina. She could not see, but knew it could only be a matter of time before she felt it's size pressing up inside her. How thick? How long? When?

He sucked her left nipple, already proudly erect, into his mouth, his tongue teasing the tip. Her pussylips already expectantly open felt the nudge she had been waiting for and she drew her breath for the inevitable invasion with a mixture of eagerness and dread. His tongue traced a path across her pink flesh joining her nipples and she moaned as her right nipple was drawn between her lips.

Feeling his back arch above her, lifting the bedclothes and bringing his pelvis up towards her, she felt the hard flesh of his member slide slickly into the tight embrace of her cunt. It felt full and snug lodged inside her opening. She sighed as his body moved again on top of hers, his mouth now following the gentle curve of her breast up towards her throat and his cock, less gently pushing deeper up inside her love channel.

'Oooooohhh!' This time she did moan, quite loudly, quite audibly. The ready openness of her wet pussy had misled her appreciation of his true girth. She felt her uterus stretch more fully than she had ever felt before and it hurt. The initial pain triggered a succession of smaller sensations, more pain, pleasure, and some incredible urges. 'Rape!', she thought, unsure if this could truly qualify, unsure if she cared. She knew she was being taken, most forcefully, most satisfyingly. She moved her hands down his muscular back trying to pull him deeper inside her … and deeper inside he went opening her up further, lubricated by her juices flowing generously around his manhood. It was long and thick; in her minds eye unfeasibly so and filling her now so comfortably.

She gasped feeling him invade her private moist depths deeper, his mouth now at her neck, his cock now firmly embedded inside her. Feeling the real physical reality of the body whose weight pressed against hers, which was fucking her so completely and yet which, in the darkness of the room and anonymity of her mind, was so completely invisible; was so strangely erotic. Seduction without sight nor sound. Rape without violence. Sex without a partner she recognised. Not even sex with a stranger, for a stranger could be recognised as such.

She could feel his cock fucking in and out of her body, his hands on her hips gripping, tensing, relaxing slightly with the rhythm. She felt herself, her body, meeting his rhythm with her own, mutually fucking him, helping him to fuck her. Somehow, in the anonymous darkness, all the inhibitions that she now knew her body had shown in the past disappeared. There was no love or lust here, but there was sex – sex of a pure animal nature that had no need for face or identity, just a hard cock and a willingly welcoming cunt.

'Ooooooooh! Fuck me! Fuck Me! Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!', she cried, as she felt the sensations building within her and the urgent hard thrusting between her thighs.

The man grunted and moaned, but made no words, just increased the tempo so that it seemed his prick was flashing in and out of her wet pussy, driving in to the hilt and pulling back, almost out, until slamming deep up inside her again.

And then it happened. The tempo changed again, but ever so slightly and she thought she felt his cock thicken within her lubricated tunnel, before erupting deep and satisfyingly into the warm darkness of her body, his gloriously anonymous semen thickly splattering the walls of her womb. And she came also, so completely, so absolutely, that for a while she forgot who she was or where she was or any of the other realities of this unreal situation.

And while she was in that state, he kissed her. It was a full kiss, on the mouth. She did not notice at the time, only remembering it later. Earlier she had dreaded that he might do that, afraid that in that moment, with his face so close to hers, that she might somehow, even in the darkness, recognise who this was and that, she knew, would spoil it all. It happened, so perfectly, at the moment she was beyond caring.

She remembered him holding her then, tenderly, his cock still oozing sticky cum inside her, her face against his neck, scenting the aftermath of his exertion. He talked to her gently in the darkness, but she either did not hear, or did not remember the words. And then he left her, with a tender kiss that she returned.

She must have drifted off to sleep, for the next thing she knew she was awake again. It had not been a dream: the state of her bed, the state of her body, the state of her mind told her that. She got up, shakily, and showered. In some kind of shock, she thought there was something she should do, but was unsure of what that might be.

A lover had come in the night, possessed her and left. No names, no telephone numbers, no face to remember. She wondered if she might be pregnant. She wondered if, despite the physical evidence, it might still be a dream. She wondered if she should leave the hotel quickly, or try to find out more. She compromised and asked reception about the man she had dined with the previous evening. The hotel was, initially, reluctant to help, having a policy of not disclosing details of guests. They relaxed, when they realised that, from the little information she was able to give, they couldn't really tell her anything anyway.

She did not believe the man capable of the night's activities. He had struck her as a kind fatherly figure: a businessman, greying at the temples, not much like her own father who never looked at his best in a suit, but certainly like the fathers of some friends of hers. Of course, she could not remember the name and she did not remember the room number, if she had ever known it. They had split the bill, each charging to their rooms and Shelley had nothing to even prove she had not dined alone. She could not remember the waiter, so was unable to find the waiter who might remember her and the man she was with. She did not, in any case, think the man was the type to pick the lock of her hotel room.

She was not pregnant. Without a name or a face to remember, in time, the entire experience itself became, for her, vaguer and difficult to believe (even her behaviour was completely inexplicable – unprotected sex with a stranger, she knew better than that!). The reality itself became a fantasy with which she would often excite herself and sometimes embellish. She knew she could never share this. To share would be to be disbelieved and Shelley was too close to not believing it herself to ever risk that.

But Shelley did keep a diary. Strangely, although a private place for her, she could not find the courage to write about, or even refer to, the incident on those pages. Instead, she wrote it down separately, concealing it as a short story, so that it would not be completely lost to her and folded it up small enough to keep it pressed between the leaves like one might press a flower.