Isabelle Washington

Though I am called Isabelle Washington, that is not my name. I am writing this memoir because I feel compelled to. Despite the fact that I have lived in more cities than I can remember, two things are always the same. The shining beacon of light and the dark heart thrives in every city.

During the day, I am surrounded by the sound of paper rustling, the hum of the copy machine, the distant burr of telephones, the clack of fingers on keyboards, the creaking of chairs, the smell of coffee mingling with the scent of printer ink, and the quiet murmur of conversation in other cubicles similar to mine. This is the background music of life in these great cities. The civilized side. Order in the chaos.

At night, there is the heavy pounding of drums, the dazzling flash of colored lights, and the scent of sweat and booze. The air is so ripe with charged sexuality, that it flickers across the skin like electricity. People dance to this feast of music, their bodies rubbing together in a frenzy of lust. In their faces I see pleasure, pain, joy, anger, excitement, and danger. This is the embodiment of the city. The dark heart. The time for the hunt. Who will be caught?

As usual, I was working when I heard about the upcoming change in management. Changes in management are always an unpleasant surprise for us. There are plenty of horror stories about staff cuts, harassment, and power plays under new tyrannical dictators posing as upper management. Were our jobs now at stake? Who was the new manager and what would they be like?

Strangely, the office grapevine was unable to get the smallest scrap of information about our newest manager. There were rumors flying all over the office. But it was all speculation. Nobody seemed to know anything. Everyone was in the dark and being in the dark makes people nervous.

Voices were louder than usual. Files were dropped more often. Faxes were sent to the wrong places. Information was typed into the computers incorrectly. The coffee was too strong. Nobody had an appetite and the doughnuts in the break-room were left to grow stale. Conversations were often fragmented and made no sense. I stopped listening to the office gossip because I grew tired of trying to decipher all the nonsense that came out of people’s mouths.

A few days later, I was in my cubicle typing up a report, when I sensed a presence. I looked up from my screen. There was a man standing at the opening to my cubicle. He had thick, salt and pepper hair. He was handsome, in a severe way, with chiseled features and striking grey eyes. There was an air of danger about him, like a tom cat that has grown old but still knows how to hunt and kill. Immediately I was on my guard, at the same time, I felt instantly attracted to him. My heart raced and my mouth went dry. Never had I felt this way around a man before. My interest was piqued. His posture was relaxed, yet there was a strength coiled beneath, like a cat ready to pounce.

"Can I help you?" I asked, annoyed with how breathless I sounded.

He straightened up and stepped forward, offering his hand. "Hello Miss Washington. My name is Birch Calloway. I'm the new manager here." The timber of his voice was deep and somehow dark. It made me think of the feel of silk against skin. Surprised and flustered, I stood up and shook his hand politely.

"Oh, uh, it's nice to finally meet you Mr. Calloway!" I flushed with embarrassment at my less than politic reply. He seemed not to notice. He was still holding my hand in his when he smiled at me. The severity of his features relaxed, giving him an almost boyish appearance. I still felt as if something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

"Nice to meet you too Miss Washington. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

I felt hot and cold at the same time. I'd never had a reaction like this. I found it unnerving. I tried to focus on what he was saying and managed to give him a polite smile of agreement. His amused expression seemed to say that he knew exactly what was going through my mind. He offered a slight bow and let go of my hand.

"Well, I've got work to do. We can talk more later." Mr. Calloway said. With that, he turned and walked away. I stood there looking after him thoughtfully. Something was off about the whole situation, but I still couldn't put my finger on what it might be. Things took an even stranger turn as I listened to my co-workers talking about him.

Everyone saw him differently. Kitty, one of the secretaries, described Birch Calloway as a portly, but handsome, man in his fifties. James, from the mail room, portrayed him as a red-headed man with a thick beard. Paul, from accounting, said he was a tall black man. No two descriptions were alike. The only thing that was the same in every description was his name.

I returned home that evening feeling intrigued by the day's events. A mystery to brighten my day. I took a long hot shower and dressed in my favorite red silk nightgown. While I made dinner, I continued to ponder the matter. It was obvious, to me at least, that he was something I hadn’t encountered before. But what was he? At the same time, I felt the breath of foolish hope, like a wind blowing through my heart. I had been alone for so long. So awfully long.

After dinner, I retired to my room with a glass of Chardonnay and a battered paperback book. After reading a few chapters, I put the book on the nightstand, turned out the light, and waited. I have always trusted my instincts. They have served me well time and time again.

It was almost midnight when I heard a sound in the darkness of the bedroom. I sat up and fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. Just as the lamp came on, I felt the weight of a body landing on mine, forcing me down against the bed. The sheets twisted around us as we fought. A rough, leathery clawed hand gripped my throat. I felt his heated breath against my ear as he spoke.

“Hello again Miss Washington.”

Still gripping me by the throat, he sat up, pulling me with him. I now had the opportunity to see my attacker. His leathery skin had a faint golden tinge, but it was the horns that spiraled out from his forehead that caught my attention. They were thick and ridged, ending in a tight curl. There was a hint of folded wings down the line of his back. I knew then that he had to be an incubus! Even in this form, I recognized the man who had introduced himself to me as Birch Calloway.

His eyes were completely black. His smile was rich with triumph and full of pointed teeth. "I told you we'd have plenty of time to get acquainted." He said in a mocking tone.

He trailed one claw along my skin, down to the neckline of my gown. Then in one quick motion, he ripped through the material, scratching the skin beneath. I let out a gasp of pain. His eyes traveled leisurely over my naked body. He let go of my throat and clamped one hand over my breast. With his other hand he pushed my legs open.

I began to smile. This is what I had been waiting for. I slid my hands up to his shoulders. His black gaze switched from my body to my face. When he did not see the terror he expected, his eyes widened with disbelief. I gave him no chance to react. Quickly, I curled my legs around his hips and pulled him toward me. His lust was his weakness, and he could not stop what he had started.

Still smiling, I moved one hand to cup the back of his neck. My other hand slid down to take him as I changed to my true form. I am a succubus. He uttered a cry of shock and tried to pull away, but my legs held him tightly. Even in his shock, his lust was still very apparent. I laughed softly and pulled him inside me. He felt so good, filling me. I pulled him in deeper, arching my hips and using my legs. He groaned helplessly and I knew that he was impossibly trapped by his own need. His terror was absolute, and I reveled in it. He was magnificent in his subjugation.

"Now, fuck me until you die!" I commanded.

He had no choice, for I ruled his lust. We writhed together on the bed for an unknown length of time. I felt his sweat against my skin as he thrust again and again, unable to stop. His skin began to crack and fade in color. His body became more insubstantial with each thrust as I sucked away his life force. Soon there was nothing left of him and I lay there fully sated for the first time in many years. But once again I was without hope.

Is there anyone who can withstand the passions of a lonely succubus?

Written by: E. Foshee

Story idea: E. Foshee

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