A Succubus For Christmas (17 page)

This was the point where he'd wake up.

The soft nubs of spinnerets within her pussy tickled against his cock. Each exuded pillows of her thickest, creamiest silk around his member, enveloping Gordon in purest ecstasy. He came again, violent tremors shuddering through his body.

This was where he'd wake up.

Her bulbous black abdomen pulsed and swayed, pumping the seed from his balls with irresistible muscular motion. He couldn't stop. It wasn't just his semen he was emptying into her. Memories, faces, thoughts, loves, desires; all were drawn into her loathsome spider body.

Wake up!

The dream, the nightmare, wouldn't end. Her abdomen pulsed and shuddered as it sucked on his cock with wet squishing sounds.

Arachne lay on top of him, casually running her hands through his hair. “You're all mine now,” she whispered. “Mine alone.”

Wake up wake up wake up.

His body writhed and shivered as he continued to ejaculate, filling her with his most precious thoughts and memories. More and more she drank of him until spent and worn out, Gordon finally succumbed to darkness.

* * * *

Gordon blearily opened his eyes and then closed them again as bright sunlight slipped between his eyelids like knife blades. The curtains were open and the mid-morning sunlight was flooding in. Gordon held up a hand in front of his face to block out the light while his eyes grew accustomed.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” his wife called out. “I'm making breakfast downstairs.”

She left the bedroom, her long black hair swishing behind her.

Of course, it was the weekend. Gordon remembered the dream and glanced down at his boxer shorts. No dark stain nor any dampness. Gordon was relieved to find no evidence of any kind of nocturnal emission. Maybe he was over the worst of it.

That dream–nightmare–had been so intense. It felt like he'd really been there, coming again and again until it felt like all of him was flowing into that monster.

The memory of it gave him chills.

He got up, showered and dressed. He walked down to the kitchen where his wife was cooking breakfast over by the stove and his daughter was eating a bowl of cereal at the dining table. The kitchen was filled with the tantalising odour of fried bacon.

“I thought I'd make you a proper breakfast,” June said, her green eyes sparkling as she smiled. “Just like back home.”

“Thanks dea–”

Gordon realised what was wrong with the scene. His wife and daughter had the same face. Not the usual likeness shared between mother and daughter, but the exact same face.

Arachne's face.

No no no.

Gordon blinked to try and clear the image from his mind. It wouldn't go away. Arachne with her cruel green eyes and midnight-black hair stared back at him from both of their faces. The worst was he couldn't recall what they'd once looked like. It was as if they'd always looked like this, going back through all his memories. Their real faces were gone, stolen as if they'd never been.

“Is something wrong Daddy?” Carol asked.

Her face shimmered and was replaced with the bristly black head of a giant spider. She stared at Gordon with eight beady black eyes. Mandibles clicked together as she brought a spoon up to her mouth.

June and Carol's faces flickered and shimmered, going from spider to Arachne and then back to spider again. Gordon tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on his plate in front of him and not look at the motions of the appendages around his wife's mouth as she fed pieces of meat into it.

Just a hallucination. He couldn't let them see anything was wrong.

He felt his sleeve being tugged and looked over at his daughter. No, not his daughter, Arachne now. Her green eyes glittered with secret knowledge and her red lips curled up in an evil smirk.

“I have them,” she whispered. “You gave them to me and I took them. They're mine now, forever.”

Gordon jerked back out of his chair, knife and fork falling from his hands to clatter onto his plate. Carol also backed away in shock, the bristly appendages on her head twitching in alarm.

“Gordon, are you sure you're okay?” June asked. Carol ran round to her mother for a comforting hug.

“I'm sorry,” Gordon said. “I don't think I'm feeling very well.”

He walked out of the room. Dark thoughts, like shoals of deep-dwelling fish, swirled through his mind. He knew what he needed to do.

He went up to the bedroom and opened the small safe hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe. Gordon reached in and took out the gun.

He hadn't wanted one, but June had insisted in the end. We're not in cosy old England, she'd told him.

June was still sitting at the table in the kitchen. Carol sat on her lap with her head resting against her mother's breast. His wife saw the gun immediately and her eyes widened in shock.

“We're right here,” June said, hugging her daughter tight while trying to remain calm. “Lovey, it's us, your wife and daughter. I know you've been suffering a lot recently sweetie, but please don't do this. We can find help. Please, Gordon. Think of your daughter.”

“Daddy, please,” Carol said between sobs.

Gordon trembled and shook. He was racked with indecision. He didn't know what to believe. It sounded like them, but where were their faces?

Why couldn't he remember their faces?

Gordon collapsed to the floor. He stared at the gun in his hands as a constant stream of tears ran down his cheeks. He lifted it up and placed the barrel between his lips. He clamped his teeth down on the unyielding metal and violent tremors ran through his body as he tried to muster up courage to pull the trigger.

No, he couldn't do it.

Gordon threw the gun away with a strangled sob. Above him he thought he heard feminine laughter. For a moment it seemed like the shadow of a gigantic spider fell over him.

Gordon rocked back and forth, tears spilling out over his cupped hands.

Then he got up and ran out to the car. He could hear the sirens off in the distance.

* * * *

Gordon sat in darkness.

The darkness was not still. A swarm of spiders, each as big as Gordon's fist, busied themselves around him, spinning silvery threads from their bulbous black abdomens as they added their own intricate designs of madness to the great web.

Gordon was tightly wrapped up in silk, unable to move so much as a muscle, yet none of the spiders approached him. Only one could do that.

“Look at all our daughters,” Arachne said from behind him. “Isn't it wonderful?” Her hands roamed over his cocooned shoulders.

Gordon said nothing. He watched his daughters dance as they drew their myriad patterns of insanity.

“Soon they will go out and spread through the dreams of men,” Arachne said, her hands moving up to massage his neck. “Doesn't that make your heart swell with pride?”

Gordon screamed as her long black legs folded around his body. He screamed as she bit down on the back of his head. He screamed as her fangs crunched through his skull.

* * * *

…and screamed...

“Good lord,” Dr Ira Kemmer commented as he looked through the glass.

The patient sat cross-legged in the centre of the padded room. His arms were bound up in a white straitjacket. He stared at a fixed point only he could see. His mouth was wide open as he screamed and screamed.

“A sad case,” Dr Bert Worthing said. “He shot his wife and daughter and then tried to flee back to England. The DA keeps asking when he's going to be ready to stand trial, but I can't see that happening any time soon.”

“No, I don't suppose it will,” Kemmer said, finally tearing his gaze away from that ghastly screaming face on the other side of the glass.

They continued down a corridor lit up with the sickly light from a flickering fluorescent tube. Kemmer caught movement in the corner of his eye and looked up at the ceiling. For a moment he thought he saw a black spider about the size of his fist scuttle away into a dark corner.

He rubbed his eyes. The flight must have left him more tired than he'd thought.

Wrapdance

“How about here?”

Simon Laws looked at the building his friend, Stephen Clark, was pointing at. Lurid red and blue neon tubes ran along the fascia of an otherwise innocuous old warehouse building. The same tubes twisted into the shape of a heavy breasted girl twirling around a pole. The name, 'SATAN'S HOLE', was emblazoned above a narrow doorway.

Subtle, it wasn't.

“Looks a bit tacky,” Laws said. The vodka buzz was fading a little and he wouldn't have objected to heading back to the hotel if the truth be told.

“Let's check it out,” Clark said. “We can always fuck off if the girls are minging.”

After paying out a small fortune just to get through the door, Laws thought to himself.

It was no use. The conference was over and it was their last night in Moscow. Clark had set his vodka-blurred mind on finding some lithe piece of Russian totty to squirm in his lap and wouldn't go home until mission accomplished.

“Can't be worse than the last place,” Stephen Morris said.

The last place was actually located in the basement of the hotel they were staying at, a concrete monstrosity with a view of Saint Basil's Cathedral they'd dubbed the Borg cube. The strip club in the basement suited it perfectly: anaemic girls with bad attitudes. That they were the only punters in the place should have told them all they needed to know.

They'd left after one of the girls had gone batshit psycho on Laws. He'd been patiently trying to explain he wasn't interested in a private dance when she'd gone nuts and started screaming at him. Laws, normally non-confrontational in nature, had been at a loss how to respond. The others all thought it was hilarious, obviously, but it had at least given them a good enough excuse to get out of that shithole.

Then the four of them–Laws, Clark, Morris and Jones–had headed off on a wild vodka-fuelled goose chase through Moscow in search of a club Clark's crazy Russian friend had recommended. The first taxi-driver had dropped them off at a different club–presumably one that gave him a commission–that was even worse than the last place. The second couldn't understand English and had driven them round in circles for a while. The third had finally got them to the right place and predictably it had been shut.

Since then they'd been aimlessly wandering the back streets of Moscow. It was very late now and they all had flights to catch tomorrow.

“C'mon, last night in Moscow,” Clark exhorted, pointing to the entrance.

At least it would get them off the streets, Laws thought. The back streets of Moscow in the early hours of the morning didn't feel like the safest of environments for a small group of IT geeks. They'd probably be able to find someone to get them a taxi back to the hotel as well.

Just through the entrance was a small foyer. At the far end a naked girl on her back was drawn in neon lights across the whole corridor. Stairs led down through her glowing outstretched pussy, illuminated by rings of pink neon. Fake smoke swirled up from below.

Subtle, it most definitely wasn't.

Two large Eastern European men with crew cuts stood behind a small table just in front of the stairs. Obviously Russian Mafia, Laws thought. He wasn't so sure this was a good idea.

“Twenty dollars,” the first said in strongly accented English. “Will get you two drinks inside also.”

While the first man took their money the second told them to remove any metal objects and ran a small portable metal detector over their bodies.

“Nothing ventured hey,” Clark smiled as they paid the money, passed through and headed down the stairs. Loud music–some sort of goth or electronica Laws couldn't recognise–and smoke awaited them at the bottom.

“Kinky,” Clark observed as they entered the interior.

The hellish theme continued inside with the décor. Chains hung from the ceiling and down the walls. The colour scheme was predominantly reds and blacks. There were two iron cages in the corners of the room, each large enough to hold a man. A hidden smoke machine pumped dry ice, tinged red by the lights, across the floor.

The theme extended to the girls themselves. The clothes they wore were tight fitting PVC or shiny leather outfits, also in red and black, and didn't leave a great deal to the imagination.