A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day and other tales Read online

  John’s body flexed and arched on the bouncy bed of protoplasm. The structures within HA-001’s body stroked and squeezed, stimulating him to far past the point of climax while simultaneously denying him release. His hands, still buried within her jelly breasts, clenched and he felt the warm protoplasm of her body squish between his fingers.

  HA-001 pouted sexily down at him. Another structure began to form within her body, about where the stomach would be on a human. It started out as a silvery little bubble or vesicle, and then expanded until it was the size of a small melon.

  They hadn’t seen this before. An ominous feeling of fear punctured his pleasure. He remembered the original victim, PFC Sandoval. He was still in a hospital bed, little more than a vegetable.

  “It’s not compatible with my biochemistry,” he said as the bubble drifted down towards his cock like a spherical jellyfish. “You’re going to put me in a coma.”

  HA-001 didn’t seem to care. She swayed up and down on top of him. The transparent rings squeezed and pumped his cock with increasing speed and force. Still John couldn’t come. It was like the bottom ring had pinched his urethra shut and nothing could get past. The pressure in his balls grew and grew.

  “I’ll scream and yell out if you don’t stop this,” John warned. “They’ll incinerate the lab if they think there’s no chance of saving me.”

  HA-001 said nothing, simply smiled. Her gelatinous breasts pulled his hands in deeper. The molten interior of her body slithered around his fingertips and triggered memories of hands sliding over breasts, of fingers passing over the aroused bumps of nipples, of palms against the smooth skin of a round ass, of digits exploring the moist folds of a lover’s sex. The sensations sprang from his fingertips—memories of pleasures past and wishes of pleasures desired.

  The other organelle, the transparent silvery bubble, settled around the head of his cock.

  John didn’t scream or yell out.

  The gossamer membrane enveloped his glans and a warm, shivery sensation of pleasure flowed into him. He could see his foreskin through the semi-transparent rings. It moved up and down with the motions of HA-001’s body. HA-001 quickened her motions as John’s cock was drawn up into the silvery vesicle. His glans became magnified—distorted—by the bubble’s surface.

  It felt like John’s pleasures were magnified as well. He wanted to come. Needed to come. His balls felt on the verge of bursting. If only he could get past that...

  And then the obstruction was gone. John’s whole body sang with relief as his hips bucked and he ejaculated. His milky-white semen puffed out in a dense white cloud within the silvery bubble. It wasn’t enough for the slime girl. The bubble expanded and throbbed like the bell of a jellyfish around the end of his cock. The rings bounced up and down as if milking him.

  “Now I feed,” HA-001 sighed, her eyes half-closed.

  The stimulus was too much. The ejaculation kept going. John was helpless to resist as he poured semen into her.

  Poured everything.

  It was a torrent uprooting everything in its path, including John. His mind felt like it had come adrift from his body. It spun and swirled as if caught in a great whirlpool, turning round and round until John felt completely discombobulated. For a moment he felt as though he existed in two places simultaneously. There he was, lying on a bed of blue protoplasm and looking up at a girl made of the same substance straddling his body. Within her body he saw an expanding silvery bubble and on its surface was a distorted, funhouse-mirror reflection of his face. And there he was, floating in a giant bubble and looking down at a naked man lying in a mass of transparent blue jelly. The man’s body trembled as if volcanic activity was rumbling away beneath the surface of its quivering form.

  The disorientation passed and John realised with horror he’d been stranded in the wrong existence. He was no longer looking up at the gelatinous body of the slime girl; he was staring out from a jelly prison at a naked body that slowly ceased movement.

  His body.

  He was staring at his naked body as it lay limply within her like a toy with all the batteries pulled out.

  He understood then. They were wrong. It wasn’t the semen she sought but what could be loosened and sucked out with it. He’d been wrong about a great many things. They all had.

  The bubble began to shrink around him.

  * * * *

  The experimental subject designated HA-001 sighed in satisfaction. She oozed back to her tank and climbed back inside.

  She was in no hurry to escape. Not yet. It wasn’t the right time.

  She settled inside, closed her eyes and rested in blissful torpor as she digested the soul inside her.

  No, she would be patient. They’d let her know when the moment was right. And then she would feast.

  She did wonder why the other human had left her tank open though.

  * * * *

  Danielle Sullivan presented the agent with a flash drive containing the camera footage from the lab between 21:30 and 23:00. The man plugged it into his computer and checked the footage. He nodded.

  “He’s in a vegetative state, just like the other one,” Sullivan said.

  The agent nodded. “We thought that might happen.”

  “It’s unfortunate,” Sullivan said. “But better him than an American citizen.”

  The man nodded. He fast forwarded through the footage, checking everything was present.

  “The film should be everything our scientists need,” Sullivan said. “I’m assuming they’re going to study it in order to work out how we can best combat Subject HA-001 and others like it.”

  The agent looked up at her. “Oh no. The commander has a huge goo girl fetish. As soon as he found out about Subject HA-001 he demanded we make a tape of her in action.”

  Sullivan’s mouth fell open.

  The agent said nothing more as he finished checking the footage. He unplugged the flash drive and walked away with it. Sullivan watched him go.

  He was yanking her chain with a silly joke, same as those stupid boys. That’s what it was.

  Wasn’t it?

  Busted Bankster

  Last night Ken Shigenori had gone to bed secure with his lot in the world. He’d gone to the right school, worked hard, been admitted to the right university, worked hard, took a job at the right city firm, worked hard, and while he wasn’t one of those ‘Masters of the Universe’ the papers liked to bang on about, after successfully closing out the DiMaggio deal he could expect to add a cool seven figures to his bank account once bonus season rolled around.

  He’d thought about phoning up an escort, or two, to celebrate, but the even more lucrative Pontac deal had kept him in the office until past midnight.

  “What do you think coke was invented for,” a colleague had joked with him a while back.

  The joke was on the colleague. His desk was abruptly cleared out a couple of months later, a consequence of taking the wrong position on a multi-million pound deal.

  The city could be ruthless, but her rewards for the savvy and fast-thinking were considerable. Ken was the cream of his generation. He had a well-paid career with stellar prospects. He had a swish apartment in a fashionable district of London. He could retire to his bed, pull the covers over his head and sleep soundly with the knowledge his future was a fast motorway to riches and luxury.

  Life was good.

  * * * *

  Today...

  They’d snatched him off the streets of the capitol, in broad daylight, as he’d been returning to his office from an expensive lunch. Al-Qaeda? Anarchists? Criminal gangsters? Ken had no idea. His captors had shoved a black hood over his head and bundled him into a car. That hood had remained on his head as they’d drove and drove to a place where the hustle and bustle of city activity had faded away.

  Hours later and still blindfolded, Ken was standing with his hands tied behind his back. He didn’t know where they were, but from the cool damp air and the echoes his footfalls made off a hard stone floor
he guessed it to be underground somewhere.

  A roar erupted around him as his captors prodded him through into a larger opening. It sounded like a raucous crowd at an illegal dog fight. Ken’s anxiety grew.

  He heard a rattling sound in front of him, like a chain-link gate clanking open. Someone sawed through the rope around his wrists and then roughly shoved him forwards. Ken lost his balance and went down to one knee. At least with his hands free he could finally tear this bloody hood off.

  Ken did that and looked around in time to see a wire-mesh cage door swing shut behind him. He heard the metallic clank as bolts were slid across. Behind the wire-mesh door dirty faces twisted into hate-filled masks glared at him.

  He turned around and saw similar snarling faces pressed up against chain-link fence all around him. They spat and screamed obscenities at him. Ken was in a cage and surrounded by a mob baying for his blood. They were underground. Naked torches burned in brackets on the walls and in a chandelier far above his head.

  What the hell was happening? Where was he? It looked like a gladiatorial arena from a post-apocalyptic road-warrior film. The baying mob didn’t look quite that unkempt, but their shouts and jeers were just as barbaric. Fists rattled against the fencing as Ken spun around.

  “Fucking bankster scum!” a black man with dreads shouted at him.

  Was that what this was about—more of that ninety-nine percent versus the one percent bollocks? Yeah, Ken was in the one percent. He was smart and had fucking worked his ass off to get there. Any of those around him could do the same if they weren’t too busy moaning and looking for someone to blame for the tawdry ruins of their lives. Fuck, if they wanted someone to blame they could start with the moron politicians they elected. They were the people that kept setting the rules in favour of the elite.

  He’d read plenty of the ‘hang ‘em from the lampposts’ comments on the mainstream news sites. He’d dismissed them as the rabid frothing of people too lazy to move their fat asses out from behind their keyboards and do something constructive with their lives. Had someone finally found enough of a spine to do something?

  They wouldn’t get away with it. The city was too important to the country. She looked after her own. The police would baton-charge this scum back into the slime where they belonged.

  The noise, already a ferocious cacophony of hurled obscenities and rattling fences, ratcheted up a notch and changed in nature. Cheers and whoops replaced the jeers as a tremor of excitement thrummed around the cage. A door on the far side opened. Ken’s opponent was entering the arena.

  He was expecting a tattooed thug and instead they sent in a statuesque woman dressed in a flowing, glossy black cape and skimpy fetishwear.

  Who the fuck was she?

  She was tall enough to be imposing. Ken reckoned she had a couple of inches on him and he was over six foot. If that height had been backed up with the muscular physique of a wrestler he might have been concerned. It wasn’t. She was all soft curves, including a ridiculously over-inflated pair of tits. She looked more like one of those wrestling divas that never actually wrestles and were only there as eye candy to keep the dads from getting bored.

  And she definitely was eye candy. Her costume, little more than a series of shiny black straps to hold her mammoth tits in place, looked more appropriate for the streets behind Kings Cross Station in the early hours of the morning. Her glossy black leggings even had a zipper over the crotch.

  She posed seductively and blew kisses to the enraptured crowd. She courted their adoration like a gothic vampire queen with her pale skin, flowing raven hair and black cape.

  “Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu!” the crowd chanted.

  “Suck the leech dry!” someone yelled.

  She must be the warm-up girl, someone to whip the crowd up like the Vegas showgirls that paraded a number around the ring before the start of each round of a boxing match.

  Surely.

  “Fuck him up, Eryzu!”

  “Batter the bankster scum!”

  They couldn’t be serious. Just look at her figure. Breast-obsessed perma-adolescent game developers could add voluptuous bodies like this into their fighting games to appeal to their equally breast-obsessed perma-adoloscent audience, but real fighters had actual physics to worry about. Look at those breasts for starters. They were ludicrous. There must be about a football’s worth of silicone in each one. It was not a body practical for fighting in.

  Ken could think of plenty of other things that body was practical for. And plenty of those things he’d pay good money to do with her.

  But no, she turned, gave him a haughty stare and settled into what he assumed was some kind of fancy martial arts stance.

  Ken shook his head. If those morons thought they were going to derive some entertainment from watching an over-inflated dominatrix beat the shit out of a pathetic, desk-bound banker they were about to get a shock.

  He held up his fists and assumed a textbook boxer’s stance.

  He wasn’t some flabby, overweight desk jockey. He’d boxed for his university and still worked out regularly at the gym.

  The girl, Eryzu, smiled at him. She looked amused.

  Ken suspected she wouldn’t be smiling so much after he’d worked her face over. Or planted a solid body blow right in the centre of one of those big, fluffy white tits. Normally he wouldn’t have relished messing up a girl’s face, especially one as fine-looking as hers, but he’d been abducted, blindfolded and thrown into an illegal fighting ring fuck knows where. The gloves were off.

  Still, it would be a shame to smash up a work of art like that.

  “I’m not like the other nine-to-five slobs,” Ken warned. “I boxed a lot at amateur level. Stay in here and you’re going to get hurt.”

  “I don’t think so,” the woman said, her dark eyes twinkling.

  “I’m not going to go easy on you because you’re a woman,” Ken said.

  “Do your best,” Eryzu said. Her bee-stung lips turned up in smile of amused contempt.

  “Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu!” the mob bayed.

  She circled Ken. Her movements were fluid... easy. Despite her impractical figure, she moved gracefully. Like a big cat. She must know a martial art, Ken thought. He wasn’t intimidated. For all their flashy moves, most martial arts were about as effective as dancing when up against a trained boxer.

  Let’s see how good you really are, Ken thought. He fired out a piston jab at the white, flawless mask of her face.

  Pretty good, as it happened. Good enough to glide to the side with an amused little smirk on her lips and see his jab pass through empty air.

  So she could dodge. But for how long?

  He’d fought slick operators before. Puffed up on their own arrogance, they slid around the ring like oil. All it took was one good clip and they fell down like a sack of spuds.

  Ken kept his shape and kept firing out piston jabs. Eryzu glided out of reach of his fist like a wraith, but was unable to get close enough to counterattack.

  Ken was hoping she’d see he meant business—that he wasn’t a tubby overweight desk jockey—and call a halt to this ridiculous farce. He didn’t relish the prospect of messing up her elegant face, or that bombshell of a body, but he would if she left him no other choice.

  Eryzu kept dodging and Ken kept pressing. She could duck and weave with the best, but she was running out of cage. Ken was inexorably herding her to the corner. Once trapped there, Ken intended to fully show her the folly of getting in a cage with one of the big boys.

  Then she pulled off a move he would have sworn was a carefully choreographed wire stunt from a Kung Fu film if he hadn’t been right in the middle of it. Even with the frontest of front row seats he still had trouble believing what he saw. She vaulted his punch. He put out a jab he felt certain would connect and the next moment she was on top of his outstretched arm and somersaulting over him like a capricious spring breeze. So fast and graceful. In comparison Ken felt like a golem made out of lead throwi
ng punches in a tar pit.

  He was still blinking in astonishment as Eryzu planted a kick in the small of his back and propelled him into the cage wall. Faces twisted in hatred screamed at him. One hawked a thick glob of phlegm into his face and Ken felt the cold slime slide down his cheek.

  “Bloodsucking cunt!” a face with far too much hair screamed at him.

  Fucking wasters, Ken thought. No better than animals.

  Rage rising to engulf him, Ken turned and charged the costumed fighter with his fists flailing. Fuck playing nice. He was going to pound that haughty face into hamburger.

  Stupid. Stupid.

  He was a blind stupid bull and she a twirling matador. She sidestepped his charge and swung him right back into the spit and insults of the mob pressed up against the cage wall. She even had time to reach between his legs and give his balls a teasing squeeze.

  Ken lashed behind him, but she was already gone, evaporated like mist. He turned and saw her showboating in the centre of the cage. His anger flared.

  No. Cool it.

  He wasn’t some stupid bull to be led a merry dance around a ring until it expired from exhaustion. He was one of the elite, the one percent. This skank with big hooters was in no way his equal. Ken brushed the red mist aside, put up his fists in a guard and advanced on her. Eryzu’s full lips curled up in amusement and she goaded him on with a beckoning finger.

  Fuck the Marquis de Queensbury shit, Ken thought. If it was good enough for Holyfield, it was good enough for him. He grabbed both her arms and attempted to plant a headbutt on her picture-perfect face.

  Eryzu brought her arms together to block and they grappled in the centre of the ring. Those soft curves that looked more suitable for the bedroom masked a wiry frame. Ken couldn’t tug her off balance and had to expend a lot of energy to keep on his own feet. Ridiculous cloak and slick dancing moves aside, Eryzu clearly wasn’t averse to mixing it up at close range as well. Ken was a man and stronger though. He started to lever her arms apart and away from her pretty face.