I had been travelling by train all day, bound for Istanbul from Paris on a business trip. Exhausted, I disembarked at an older station in Kecskemet, an old style city in the middle of Hungary. I had an overnight here, and then would catch another train in the morning and head southeast toward Szeged and the border with Romania. I checked with the kiosk and was told that the three primary hotels were full (because of a business conference apparently) but that a couple of hostels in an older section of town were available, and pretty nice. The helpful railroad employee picked up the old style telephone and dialed, and spoke in Hungarian, then hung up and turned back to me. “The Red Apple has rooms available. It’s very nice, run by an older couple, not very commercial at all. More like your American bed and breakfasts. Also, probably your cheapest option.” I grinned “Thanks. Do they speak English as well as you?” I asked. He laughed. “Not likely. But they’ll speak well enough to take your credit card and put a meal on the table in front of you. Take that cab over there.” He indicated a rusty old Soviet-era taxi idling on the street. I tipped him a few euros and walked to the cab.
The cab dropped me in front of a two story wooden house that looked about three hundred years old, although it was freshly painted and the front was clean and tidy. The older couple who ran the place were in the front lobby when I walked in, and greeted me warmly. Their English was fine, and I negotiated room and a meal, and a 7 a.m. wake up call for a more-than-reasonable price. The inn was quaint, and I didn’t see anyone else in the dining room when I looked in, just old tables and chairs. The husband escorted me up the stairs to my room. After I tipped him, I looked around, and was pleasantly surprised with how clean and well-kept the room was. I had what looked to be a queen-sized bed made of mahogany-colored wood. A large mirror occupied one wall, making the room look much bigger, and the rest was kind of a Wayne’s Coating thing- wood up to waist level, and wallpaper above, in a lovely green and pink pattern. The bathroom was small but functional, and there was a writer’s desk with a chair. On the desk were numerous antique pictures of various people, all black and white, and apparently taken in the summer and when the people were happy. One picture was a photograph, showing a lovely young blonde woman with beautiful dark blue eyes and blonde eyebrows, looking happy and cheerful on a sunny day, a picnic basket in her arms. Some emotion struck me as I looked at the photo, and wondered who this beautiful young woman was, and what had happened to her. Curious, I pulled it closer, and saw written in pencil, in European style letters, but in English, “Barbara Rosenstein 2/25/1903 – 7/6/1925. Died of broken heart.”
I felt an almost electric tingle go through my body, the heaviest ASMR response I’d ever experienced, and I quickly set the photo back on the wooden desk. Broken heart? And she was so beautiful. Almost dead a hundred years though. I had a thought that I hoped she rediscovered love and joy in heaven.
The room seemed colder, and I felt an intuitive thought that I was intruding a little into someone’s private affairs. I stood up and just then there was a knock on the door; it was the old man telling me that dinner was ready. As I nodded to him, I pointed at the picture and asked “Who is Barbara?” An odd look crossed his face, but only very briefly, before a neutral smile returned. “She was my great aunt. She died very young. My grandmother told me she was very beautiful, and it was very sad for the whole town when she passed on.”
I ate dinner alone, enjoying the goulash, Hungary’s ubiquitous national dish, looking occasionally at my smart phone to catch up on the news, but unable really to get my mind off the beautiful black and white picture: a smiling pretty girl with lovely features, long blonde hair, a curvy bust that her simple sun dress couldn’t disguise. There were flowers and bushes beside her, a picnic basket in her hand, and fields behind her. I found it odd to be perseverating over something so inconsequential to me, but I couldn’t stop wondering what could drive a young beauty to die of a broken heart. As I was finishing up, the old man appeared again, smiling warmly and with a little excitement and humor, he was carrying another picture to show me. I looked down as he approached, and my eyes widened. The picture showed Barbara, this time in a beautiful dark evening dress, and hanging on the arm of a very handsome young man. I say very handsome in a tongue in cheek manner, because the man looked exactly like me. He was my doppleganger, a twin born over a century ago, but he could have passed for me, and me for him. “Wow,” I told the man. “That man looks just like me.”
“Maybe you are from Hungary,” he said. I shook my head. “I’m French and Polish. But I don’t brag about either.” I quipped. He shrugged. “This was her lover Marcus. He died at sea near Argentina while on an expedition. When she heard the news, she fell sick, refused to eat, and died only weeks later.”
“Oh my God, that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” I told the old man. He nodded. “And then ten years later the Germans came, and things got much worse for a while.” Muttering to himself about Nazi occupiers, the old man doddered away. I finished my plate, got up and headed up to my room.
I tried to put Barbara out of my mind that evening, focusing on my business laptop (and grateful this place had wifi). After a few hours of running numbers and scenarios, I yawned, and got up from the desk. I popped a melatonin, set my smart phone alarm to back up the wakeup call I had asked for, stripped naked since the room was hot, and slipped under the covers. The last thing I remember as I drifted off to sleep was the black and white photograph of Barbara.
Occasionally I have lucid dreams, and tonight I felt the epic grandeur of a misty, fog-shrouded forest with large, spooky trees, shifting shadows, the soft moss of a moor, everything blacks and whites around me, as I walked through a Grimpen Mire. In my dream I was fearless, fascinated at the dreary and stark shadowy forest, and when a figure in white came out of the dark, suddenly before me, I was immediately rapt. She was a wraith wrapped in white linen, her face hidden by a flowing cloth, and then the fabric had slid out of the way, and I was facing, of course, a lovely blonde Barbara Rosenstein. She was curiously in black and white, except for her bright golden hair, and her yellow eyebrows, and then, as she tilted her head up to look at me, her clear sky-blue eyes pierced my heart like a cold caress. She smiled in joy at me, her beautiful dark lips slipping back over her perfect teeth, and she mouthed “Marcus, you have come,” to me.
I was shivering with joy and fear and lust and love and every other emotion I’ve ever known, balled up into a large roiling orb of static, and I was unable to speak. This lovely wraith lifted her arms, and the remaining whitish linen-like fabric slipped to the ground, and I saw her trimmed pubic area was also a lovely golden yellow. I looked down, and suddenly realized that I was also naked, standing in the forest trail with nothing about me except a massive jutting erection.
I managed to take a step forward, raising my arms and opening them, and she glided through the distance between us, and her hands were on my chest, and her lips were on mine, and I thought it felt like I was kissing an ice cube as she kissed and nibbled and licked with her cold tongue. Before I could react to the crazy cold that was swirling around me, she pushed me and I lost my balance in the dream, falling backwards, but of course she was holding me and didn’t allow me to be hurt as I gently hovered backwards and down, and then alit on the cool forest floor, which now felt much smoother on me. This beautiful woman was staring with deep blue eyes into mine, her face only inches from mine, her breath cool and electric on the skin of my face, and I felt her hands on me, fingers wrapped around my jutting cock, and her breathing accelerated a little as she rubbed the head of my turgid red cock against the golden hair at the crest of her legs, and then there was a sigh from her as she found the opening of her slit, and she rubbed more, popping the head of my cock into her ghostly vagina, and this beautiful waif in my dream sank down upon me, implanting my cock all the way inside her moist pussy.
I moaned with fervor as she settled on top of me, her skin cool and translucent, still mostly black and white and shadowy except for the golden hair. Her hips moved quickly, slamming my cock into and out of her ethereal quim. Barbara’s cold tongue licked at my lips as she fucked me, and although the odd temperature of my frigid lover was something I’d never experienced, I also knew this was a dream, and my cock was working fine, long, hard, staying up, as she rode it. Finally, Barbara shuddered and her body spasmed and shook as she began orgasming. After a few moments of sexual bliss, Barbara just collapsed on top of me, her skin still cold and cool on top of me. “Marcus,” she whispered. “I’ve waited so long for you to return.” In my dream, it did not seem unusual that she was speaking to me in English.
Finally, I was able to speak in the dream. “I am not Marcus,” I told her. “My name is Jay. I’m an American.”
Yeah, not the smartest thing to say while this ghostly succubus was still sitting on my hard cock in a dream forest, having just fucked me because she thought it was her long-lost lover. With a howl, Barbara lifted herself off of me, her face suddenly almost demonic in anger, and her hand slashed at my face, clawing at my flesh. The sudden pain made me start, and I awoke from the dream, sitting up in my bed.
And there, across from me, on her knees, simmering in anger, translucent but visible, was a visibly distraught Barbara. Or rather her ghost. Or perhaps I was still dreaming, kind of an Inception effect. I lifted my hands, feeling the pain on my face where she had angrily slapped me in the dream.
“I waited a century for this,” hissed the ghost. “Every night ignoring that light in heavens, the call of God. I was so sure he would return.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t help myself in the dream.”
She looked at me diffidently for a moment. “I can’t blame you, I suppose. I saw you here, and basically raped you. If you’re not Marcus, you look exactly like him.”
“I’ve never talked to a ghost before,” I said. “What’s this about a light?”
“There is a light in the sky every night. It’s heaven, God. They are waiting for me there, but I have been staying here, waiting for my lover to return. Kind of stupid, but that’s how I was- stupid in love.”
“I don’t think he’s coming back,” I said. “Maybe you should head toward the light.”
She nodded, and moved closer to me. “You are kind, Jay. And you are right. More and more I have been tempted to move forward. I think tonight I shall.”
I grinned. “That makes me happy.”
This beautiful wraith smiled lovingly at me. She moved right beside me, and I could see her body and feel her cool touch as she laid a hand on my side. “You are still hard,” she said, nodding at my erect cock. “I can’t leave you like this.” I felt the electricity of her cool touch as she touched my chest, pushing me back to a lying position, and then her cool mouth descended on my cock, and she slid my turgid rod into her mouth. I felt her sucking and licking on my cock, while her hands played at my balls. My right hand slid down her ghostly body, so cool to the touch, and not ethereal, but rather supple and touchable. My fingers slid over her soft round ass cheek, and right into her juicy pussy. Her hair felt like strands of silk on my abdomen and hips as her wet mouth bobbed up and down on my cock, her ghostly tongue wrapping around the fleshy shaft, while her undead energy sucked on the top of my cock. She sensed my balls tensing up and sucked harder as my orgasm hit me. Cum welled up out of my cock, into her ghostly mouth, but she wasn’t purely in this dimension, and it splashed up through the back of her ghost blonde hair, landing on my legs. It was weird to feel her cool skin against me, to feel her slutty mouth sucking out my cum, but to watch my cum just go right through her.
I fell back in the bed, and she floated up to kiss me on my lips. “I’m going now,” she said. “You were a splendid lover. Maybe you have a little of Marcus in you.” Then, as I watched, she glittered and disappeared.
I looked over at my smart phone, plugged into the charger on the wall at the desk, and I said to myself as I lay back on the mattress “Now why the FUCK did I not think to video that!”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/dpevg1/sucked_off_by_a_succubus_part_1_of_a_4_part
Link to the story on my erotica blog.
https://onehandedstories.com/sucked-off-by-a-succubus-sexy-beasts-series-part-i/