Date: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 14:58:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: Queer Tribes <queer_tribes@yahoo.ca>
Subject: Mark of the Incubus - Chapter 1

MARK OF THE INCUBUS

The following story contains sex acts between adults and teenagers of all
genders. Some of the sex may happen under the influence of magic and might
be dubbed non-consensual. Being forced to have sex against your will can be
very hot in a fantasy, but would be dreadful in reality. Please always
check in with your partners in real life to be sure everything you are
doing is enthusiastically consensual (even if you are pretending to be an
incubus thrall being magically coerced into sexual depravity by your
master). This is also a lower tech fantasy setting where condoms are not
readily available, and unprotected sex will abound. We are lucky in real
life to have condoms that allow us to enjoy our sexual freedom without
being afraid of STIs or unplanned pregnancies, so once again, please make
enlightened decisions in managing your sexual health.

Any feedback is appreciated, and it's always wonderful to hear of people
who got a good time from the story. You can reach me at
queer_tribes@yahoo.ca.

Finally, if you have a thing for werewolves, smut, and some gore, feel free
to check out my other story on Nifty, The Tenderness of Wolves:

http://www.nifty.org//nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/tenderness-of-wolves/

And now on with the incubus goodness. :)

***

Chapter 1 - Vincent

"...and protect us from the weakness of the flesh!", yelled the cleric as
he brought down his sacrificial knife on the helpless goat. This was the
part Vincent had always disliked. He looked away, taking in a deep breath
to retain control of his stomach. He hoped Father Mateo had not noticed;
the man of the cloak would not appreciate a squeamish altar boy.

Vincent glanced at the crowd to avoid the morbid spectacle of the
sacrifice. They were on their knees, adults and children, men and women
alike. Anyone old enough to not be considered a child anymore had cut
themselves with knives of their own - blades called "katars" that had been
blessed by the clerics. There was power in blood, power in sacrifice. It
was customary to cut the back of the left hand, but cutting the top side of
the forearm was also accepted. This is what Vincent had done; the son of a
carpenter, he often had to work with his hands, and he'd rather keep them
uninjured. He didn't mind the cutting as much as the killing; he was used
to hard labour, and that came with the frequent minor injury. He stared at
the blood trickling down his arm. The cut was shallow, and he would bandage
it after mass, as everyone did. It was almost over. The ritual sacrifice of
the goat was the climax. Father Mateo would utter a blessing, and the crowd
 would be on its way. Vincent would help clean and put away the various
implements the cleric had used, and then he would be on his way soon. He
very much looked forward to a cigarette, and to spending some time with his
Anya, the baker's daughter. She was his sweetheart. They had grown up
together; one day he would wed her, and he would give her children. It was
customary also to marry young, but Vincent could think of worse fates than
living with her for the rest of his life. He liked her.

***

He had just lit his cigarette when Anya found him under the Second
Bridge. He took in the sights she offered. Her long, red hair was untied,
and it framed her freckled face. She had the cutest upturned nose, and this
smirk that always let him know she was up to something. She was still
wearing her red dress from mass; all adult women wore crimson garments for
the ceremony. He caught himself wishing her clothes would reveal more of
her curves. He chased away the thought. He recalled Father Mateo's
admonition. `The flesh is weak.'

"You got a cigarette for me, handsome?"

She always called him handsome. He liked that very much when she did. Truth
be told, he had never seen himself as much to look at. He was tall and
broad, and he had big hands; he assumed women enjoyed that about him. But
he had a bad case of acne on his face and shoulders, and he hated this
about him. His mother told him this was a teenage thing, and that it would
go away eventually. So far, "eventually" had taken more than three years,
and it showed no sign of happening soon.

He handed her the cigarette he had rolled for her, ahead of time; she took
it with her long fingers and brought it to her red lips. He cracked a
match. He cupped the side of her cigarette with his hand as he lit it up,
and he used that as an excuse to brush the soft, pale skin of her
cheek. Then he pulled away, and he leaned against the masonry wall. He
watched her taking in her first drag, aware of the goofy grin on his face,
but not caring.

"Dead goats, you're beautiful, you know that?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Vincent. Thanks for the smoke."

"Mass was dreadful. My mother went behind my back and told Father Mateo I
could be his altar boy today, can you believe that?"

She chuckled.

"Maybe she has hopes you'll take the cloak."

"Bloody katars, she can hope as much as she likes. I'm not going to spend
my life butchering goats for an audience."

"You've got the blasphemy easy, today."

He shrugged.

"You know I don't care much for mass. Blood magic, that's what it
is. Spells are for the crooked, the clerics say. But put some killing and
cutting to them and do them in a pretty building, and it's all okay.

He shook his head.

"Listen. The teachings of Ataru are there."

He pounded his chest, where his heart was, with his fist.

"I follow them. I pray at daybreak, high noon, and twilight. I keep my
flesh pure. I work hard, everyday. But the blood sacrifices? That just
creeps me out."

He finished the last of his cigarette in an angry gesture. She also took a
drag, looking at him, a grin on her face.

"Your flesh isn't so pure."

He blushed. His loins stirred. `Bloody katars', he thought. They had kissed
a lot, he and her. Not chaste, proper kisses. Kisses that made his body
quiver, his blood boil. He had groped her too, in improper ways. He
remembered her small breasts that he had felt through her clothes. When it
was too difficult to stop thinking about her warm lips, her wet tongue, or
her forbidden mounds, he prayed, even if the sun wasn't right. Custom
dictated he should cut to keep his flesh clean, but he saw little point in
it. It was his thoughts that mattered.

"You'll get us in trouble. What if somebody sees us?"

"Don't talk as if this was on me. You love it as much as I do."

She threw the butt of her cigarette to the ground.

"Okay, okay", he admitted. "I like it."

There was his goofy grin again. That's why he liked her. She wasn't meek
and shy like the other girls. She was bold, and she knew what she
wanted. `She wants me', he thought. It was enough to bring a swell to his
male member.

"Wanna do it again?"

His breath caught in his chest. Of course he wanted to. But it was against
the teachings. The teachings and "want" did not go along well. Sharing the
flesh was only for the married, and even though, only to give one another
children. Nothing they had done had even come close to a full sharing, but
there was no ambiguity in the teachings - their mouths should not meet, and
hands should be kept to themselves. But he couldn't help it.

"Yes", he breathed.

She stepped towards him, and she wrapped her hands around his waist. She
drew him close, and she brought her lips to his. They began kissing. With
just the lips first, then with the tongue. She had always initiated their
kissing, but he had shown her the tongue. He knew about the tongue because
his best friend Arwick had told him; Arwick had kissed girls too, and he
knew a lot on the topic. Anya tasted of tobacco smoke, but Vincent didn't
mind. She also tasted of girl and sweet nothings. Now she was taking his
hand, and she guided it to her breast. He offered no resistance at all, and
he began fondling the soft flesh, although two layers of clothing - her
dress and her brassiere - were in the way. She pressed herself against him,
and he became very much aware that she could probably feel his erect
manhood. It did not stop her. The kissing went on, noisy, wet, and he kept
enjoying the cup of her breast. After a long minute, they stopped to catch
their
 breath.

"You like it?", she asked.

"You know I do."

"There's something I'd like to do for you. My older sister told me about
it."

He gave her nose a gentle poke with his finger.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Trust me. Boys like this."

He hesitated. He realized she was offering something that went further than
what they had already done together. Truth be told, although their kissing
and breast fondling was against the teachings, he knew boys and girls
sometimes did this. They cleansed themselves afterwards through prayer and
making their blood flow with their katars, and he assumed no one was worst
for the wear. But doing anything more than what Anya and he were doing - it
could truly endanger their purity.

"Don't be a scaredy cat. Edith has done that to her sweetheart, and nothing
terrible happened."

Edith was her older sister.

"Anyway, you're the one who says not to listen to all the clerics say", she
added.

"Okay. I'll trust you."

He had never been good at saying "no" to her. The enjoyment they both got
from their indiscretions helped. He would just pray harder to make up for
it.

She rubbed her nose against his, then she kissed him again. Her soft tongue
pushed between his lips, and he welcomed it with his own. He returned to
playing with her tit, unprompted this time. He wondered what she wanted to
do for him. She lowered her hand from his waist to his thigh. It stayed
there for a while. Then it moved to his crotch, grabbing his engorged
member through the cloth, feeling it up. It was like a jolt of electricity
coursed through him. His first instinct was to grab her hand, to take it
away from him, to ask her what in all the dead goats in the world she was
thinking - yet he did no such things. Her hand on his cock was the most
wonderful sensation he had ever experienced. It was HER hand - Anya's, the
most wonderful, beautiful girl he had ever met - on HIS cock. For a moment,
he tried to tell himself that this wasn't any worst than him groping her
breasts, but he knew the male and the female organs were especially
forbidden.
 He had not even dared touch his own for pleasure - ever. She was massaging
him through his trousers and suddenly, she unbuttoned them. His eyes grew
wide. He broke off his mouth from hers.

"Anya, we can't--"

"Shhhh... It's okay. We'll pray together afterwards. You can even be an
altar boy for a few masses to make up for it. It's okay. You'll love it."

Spending more Sun Days as an altar boy should not have been a good selling
point for this, but he let her convince him. Her hand had been so
wonderful. He wanted to know what it would be, her warm flesh against his,
without any layer of clothing in between. He feared suddenly his male parts
might surprise her, might disgust her. Maybe it would not be what she
expected. He did not want to disappoint her. It mattered so much to him,
what she thought of him. She opened the front of his trousers, and she slid
her hand inside. He rarely wore underpants; it was also technically a
violation of the teachings, that demanded his impure parts be properly
clothed. But he had always been more comfortable with just his pants and
nothing else under. So this is how Anya easily reached his cock, and took
hold of it. She wrapped her hand around it, and she began moving her hand
up and down his shaft. Vincent wanted to melt in her touch. He had never
experienced any
 sensation like this. He often had to quell the demands of his flesh. Ever
since he had turned 11, his member often became hard and erect, most of the
time for no reason, and there had been moments when his boyhood had felt
like it needed to be touched, needed to be eased. When it happened, he
would pray, or he would douse himself with a bucket of cold water. He had
even cut himself a few times when the urges had been too strong. Cutting
with his katar had been the most effective, but he never liked taking the
blade to his skin outside of mass. So far, he had never done impure things
with his male organ. But Anya was doing something very, very impure to him
right now. She was using her hand to move the skin of his shaft and rub the
innermost part of his rod with it. Even though - like all boys - the
clerics had cut his foreskin when he had been a baby, she found enough
loose skin to pull over the head of his penis, which was deliciously
sensitive. She
 had been stroking his member for barely a minute, and her touch was
becoming unbearable - except this was the most amazing `unbearable' ever,
an `unbearable' he didn't want to stop. This urge he often felt, it was
back, magnified, but it seemed it was about to be relieved, for the first
time. He didn't know for sure what it entailed. He had a rough
understanding of sex, and he knew men had seed that left their penises to
enter their wives - and that this seed should not be spilled under any
other circumstances. He had awoken a number of times in the middle of the
night or in the morning before the dawn prayer to find a sticky, white
fluid clinging to his belly or bedsheet, and he had always prayed much
longer on those days, even cutting himself at times, wondering if he had
somehow soiled his purity in his sleep. But now, he realized Anya was doing
something that would make his seed rise, and he found himself unable to
stop her. He did not
 want to stop her. His sweetheart was using her hand to touch him in the
most pleasurable way he had ever experienced, and he did not have the moral
strength to object. His breathing became ragged. Her hand stroked
faster. Then it felt like he would lose control, like he would piss on her,
except that his manhood seized up and began spurting the sticky, white gunk
over her fingers, and then--

***

His trousers were still undone when he came to, and the world was a
spinning mess. He raised a hand, grabbing the masonry wall for support, and
he sat up. He looked around, looking for his sweetheart.

"Anya?"

`What happened to me?' He began remembering what they had done, how she had
taken his member to make him spill his seed. He glanced at his crotch. The
sticky white stuff covered his penis, his pubic hair, and the bottom of his
shirt. Had spilling his seed knocked him unconscious? He had not known such
a thing could happen. He lifted the soiled edge of his shirt, to see if the
substance had soaked through.

Then he froze at the sight.

Below his belly button, a symbol was visible on his skin, covering most of
the space above the line where the top of his pubic patch ended. It looked
liked three connected spirals, laid out in a reverse triangle pattern. The
marking was black, reminiscent of tattoos he had seen etched in the skin of
sailors, but without any fading of the ink. Vincent brought his hand to his
mouth.

"No, no, no, no, no..."

He knew the symbol. He had known it since childhood. It was taught to all
children early on in the teachings: the mark of the anathema, those who had
soiled their purity and become demons. The demons were said to be trapped
in the vices of the flesh, and could do no other thing than lure others in
the same depravity. Such a female demon was called a succubus. A male demon
was called an incubus - and right there, on his lower belly... Vincent was
gazing at the mark of an incubus.

`Where's Anya?'

He tried to stand, but vertigo hit him, and he collapsed against the stone
wall, the rough rock edges scraping his exposed backside. His thoughts were
racing. Had he hurt her? Had she panicked after he fainted and run for
help? Help for him? Help for her? Had she seen the demonic mark? Had she
told anyone?

"Stand. Stand, Vincent, you moron", he urged himself.

This time he succeeded. He put his member back in his trouser, feeling
shame in his gut. He pulled down his seed-stained shirt over the mark. He
should have said no to her. He should have been stronger. This was
punishment for their lusts. Then Vincent paused, struggling for
balance. Had she been punished too? Was that why she wasn't around? He had
to find her.

He stumbled from under the bridge, next to the river, close to the forest
that bordered town. Then he heard shouts.

"There he is!"

He spun around, wild eyed, and he saw a contingent of Red Cloaks on the
bridge - the Small Inquisitors. There was half a dozen of them, armed with
long muskets. They began a hustle towards him.

"Stop in the name of Ataru! Stay right where you are!"

Vincent's knees buckled. He heaved, and tasted rank remains from his
breakfast in his mouth, but managed not to throw up. `This can't be
happening. This isn't real.' The Red Cloaks would catch him, and they'd see
for themselves he had the mark. They would take him to the Bastille. They
would torture him until they deemed him cleansed, and then they would drown
him.

Vincent didn't even think. He bolted towards the woods, running like he had
never run. He heard yells behind him, yells he didn't heed. He was reaching
the first trees. The trees were his only chance. Then something hit his
lower back, right below his kidney; it burned, inside him, in his gut. He
actually felt it a split-second before the snap of gunshots reached his
ears; bullets travelled faster than sound, he remembered having heard,
once. He tripped on a root, and he nearly collapsed, but he somehow managed
to retrieve his balance. If he fell, if he stopped, he was lost. Pain was
spreading where the bullet had hit him, hot, throbbing. He ignored it,
pushing his body, his legs, his endurance to the limit. He couldn't
stop. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop.

He delved into the dark woods, the only hope for his life.

TO BE CONTINUED.