Loving the Succubus

Sex with the Succubus

"M-my home is not far from here," Picasso stuttered.

"Be at peace, I care not if your numbers are many or but few," Marfa said with a laugh. She took one last puff of her cigarette, put it out, and tossed the butt on the ground. Then she got up and stretched and he realized that Marfa was at least a foot taller than him. No wonder the ancients thought the Nephilim were giants! Nephilm Sirens were, on average, at least anywhere from six-one to seven feet tall. Marfa must have been at least six-four. 

"Are you frightened of my height, Master Dular?" she purred.

"More like being accidentally snapped like a twig," Picasso admitted, feeling his skinny jeans get uncomfortably tight in his crotch area at being called "Master". 

"I am very careful about my strength, do not worry."

They walked the last few blocks to his place, Picasso occasionally glancing back at her. Marfa was giving him a look that clearly stated she wanted nothing better than to eat him whole, which only made him even more hard.

His hands were shaking so hard that it took several tries to unlock his apartment door, but the moment Picasso let her in, then locked the door behind him, Marfa gently pushed him onto the living room floor, then quickly divested him of his clothes at a rapid pace. 

Straddling his chest, Marfa leaned down to give him a soft, gentle kiss, one hand stroking his hair, the other stroking his manhood. Picasso returned the kiss, and soon they were rolling around on the carpet making out, the younger man moaning and bucking into her hand, before reluctant having to remove her hand 

"Gonna bust a nut on this floor if I don't stop you," he warned. "Bedroom?"

Marfa paused to give a mischievous smile, stand up, and remove her clothes. Then she crooked a beckoning finger at Picasso, and ran. 

Smirking, he ran after her, tackling a laughing Marfa to the ground, picking her up, and tossing her onto the bed, spreading her legs. Obligingly, the older woman stuffed a pillow under her back and tented her legs.

Then it dawned on him.

"Rubbers! Shit!" he swore. Then he noticed a smirking Marfa holding a condom in her hand.

Quickly taking it from her hand, unwrapping, and adjusting it just so, Picasso plunged into her with an eagerness the younger man hadn't seen since he was losing his virginity.

"Ow!" he cried. She had playfully smacked him on the shoulder

"Dearest Picasso, 'tis a marathon, not a sprint!" Marfa playfully chided.

Chagrined, he lowered his speed. She fit him like a glove, matching him stroke for stroke, clenching him just so  Marfa groaned, mumbling in that weird lilting Arabic/Greek hybrid language she spoke to the barista. At some point, she sat up and began wrapping her arms around Picasso's neck, scratching her fingernails down his back.

"Den boro!" she cried. Picasso was so turned on that he started thrusting harder and faster.

"What's that?" he teased.

"No more!" she cried in English and they both came, Picasso falling on top of her, both their bodies spent and sticky. 

Panting, they lay joined together for a couple of minutes, nuzzling and caressing before the younger man reluctantly rolled off of a blissed-out Marfa onto the empty space next to him.

"What wonders that phallus of yours can produce," Marfa panted.

They then passed out.