Edward Lee - Succubi

“Why!” Ann objected. “He was conscious!”

“My God, Ann,” her mother muttered.

“What the hell is wrong?” Ann continued.

“The drastic rise in blood pressure caused a physical strain against the occluded blood vessels in his brain. You shouldn’t have encouraged him to write, because that only increased the strain further. It challenged him to a physical task he’s no longer physically capable of.”

Ann still didn’t understand. All she understood was that her father had been conscious, and now everybody was acting like Ann had done something grievously wrong.

“Before trying to induce him to write, you should’ve called me so I could lower his heart rate to a safe level. All that excitement at once was too much for him. The rise in systolic pulse more than likely forced some of the clot apart, sending pieces further into the brain. He may die now.”

Ann felt paralyzed in turmoil.

“My God, Ann!” her mother yelled.

“It’s my fault,” Dr. Heyd offered. “I should have explained more specifically before I left the room.”

“It’s not your fault, Ashby,” Ann’s mother hotly replied. “The problem is my fine daughter doesn’t realize the fragility of anything! She has no forethought at all!”

“Mom, I—”

“I invited you home to see him, Ann, not kill him!”

Ann’s mother stormed out of the room. Ann stood teary-eyed. Milly put her arm around her shoulder.

“It couldn’t be helped, Ann,” Dr. Heyd said, watching the monitor. “You didn’t know.”

I may have just killed my own father Ann realized.

Ann watched in mute numbness as Milly and Dr. Heyd tended to her father. In a few minutes, Dr. Heyd confirmed, “He seems to be stabilizing for now. We’ll know more by morning.” Then he looked down at Ann’s hand. “Is that what he wrote?”

Ann still held the piece of notepaper her father had scribbled on. She looked at it now, for the first time. Just scrambled letters, nothing coherent. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said, and gave the note to Dr. Heyd.

“To your father, though, it probably does,” the doctor told her after reading the note himself. “Unfortunately, orbital strokes of this magnitude frequently obfuscate the learned memory faculties in the brain. In other words, he was writing without a sequenced memory of the alphabet. It’s quite common in these cases.”

Dr. Heyd, it seemed, had a professional answer for everything. Ann felt disappointed. She would never know what her father, in what may have been his last conscious moment in life, had been trying to communicate to her.

What he’d written was this:

BLUDCYNN HÜSL — DOTHER FO DOTHER

—

Chapter 21

“Secean we,” bid the wifmunuc. Becloaked, she knelt before the blessed nihtmir.

“Eternal mother, bless us!” came the chorus.

Yielding to the rushes of love, of bliss and sanctity, the wifmunuc remained solemn. In silence, then, she prayed before the slab, Her holy sweosters joined her from behind, menteled in black, in the cirice.

“Modor, Druiwif, Dother fo Nisfan,” the wifmunuc bid, raising her arms. “We give lof fom eard, os hüslpegns, in yur soo, we fi wuldor, lar, gliw.”

“O, Blessed One, hear our prayer.”

“Ure heofan yur nisfan.”

“Receive our prayer.”

Each wifhand then dropped their mentels, nude beneath. They bowed in the cirice, sweat shining on their backs. Several wreccans stood to the rear, blank-faced, bearing torches to give light in their conqueror’s eard. Then the wifmunuc rose and stepped out of her own cæppe, which was black as the others’, but sewn of the finest silk. Naked, she pressed a hand to the slab. Untold wonders bloomed on her face, the most holy visions, unspeakable, incalculable. She looked into the slab, staring.

Two more wreccans dragged in a hüsl, who had been properly gagged so as not to disrupt the wifmunuc’s muse. Now the wifhands broke. A second hüsl, a female, was removed from one of the pens. Wreccans gagged her, stripped her, brought her forth.

The male hüsl was held upright. He was typical, a stray drunk picked up hitchhiking. But the wreccans had sought well—this one was young, muscular, handsome. As they stripped him, the terror in his young eyes was beautiful.

Yes, the pig would make a beautiful sacrifice.

More wreccans—the cokwors—stoked the great fire in the cooking pit. Each stoke flooded the cirice in lovely, hot waves. For a time, the wifhands took turns touching the male, reveling in the sensation of flesh. They caressed the chest, buttocks, and genitals, their faces grinning in firelight. Then:

“Wîhan!” ordered the wifford.

The male was laid upon the dolmen, which was encrusted from countless feks. Wreccans tied him down. Pots of leahroot smoked fragrantly about the dolmen, charging them all with the sweet passion of their god. The wifford began to fellate the male, while others stroked his flesh with flaxbalm. They took turns, moving in a watchful circle, each taking the helot unto their mouths. Soon the leahroot and balms had seeped into his blood. Despite his terror, his genitals hardened.

The female was forced to watch. Her tainted features proved her distance from the bludcynn. Stringy white-blond hair, blue eyes, faint pink nipples on large breasts. She shook, sweating, as two wreccans held her up. Urine streamed freely down her tanned legs.

In the nave, though, the wifmunuc continued to supplicate their god, her face peering into the nihtmir. The cold stone against her fingertips filled her with coruscating heat. Her vision delved; it was being led away deep into the stygian field. Deeper, deeper…

Each wifhand took turns straddling the male helot, their faces turned up in bliss, while the others looked on.

… and down. She was in a different realm now, where madness was the only order, darkness the only light. It was beautiful…

The helot shuddered in his own sweat as he lay there to be taken again and again. The wreccans brought the blonde closer still, to see. When she dared to close her eyes, a white-hot stoking rod was lain across her buttocks. Two more wreccans approached the dolmen, with knives.

… so beautiful to be led into their god’s wondrous lair. Her physical body behind her, the wifmunuc seemed to float through the shifting blackness like a feather on the wind. Soon she drifted out of the chasm and onto a strange precipice. It was another time, or, perhaps, another world…

“Soo, soo,” hotly whispered the wifford. It began with her, and it would end with her. She pushed a sweoster off and restraddled the helot, penetrating herself upon his penis. She grunted, thrusting down.

… yes, a precipice backed by the strangest twilight, scarlet and flashing black stars. Two masci guarded the summit, hairless, swollen-faced things, eyes long since healed over. Blindly, they sensed the wifmunuc’s presence, tilting up their heinous, misshapen heads. They let her pass, then went back to their meal of bones, black maws cracking down to expose the succulent marrow. Suddenly, the wifmunuc was reborn. She was a child, naked in twilight, standing amid the highest trees. A sound could be heard beyond the forest, a presence could be felt. The wifmunuc lost her breath…

“Wîhan,” panted the wifford. She leaned back on her hands, to deepen the penetration as her orgasm spasmed. The helot, too, began to tremor, his semen exploding into her sex, and then—

“Wîhan, wîhan!” she shrieked.

—the wreccans sliced his belly open at the same time. The helot convulsed on the slab; the wifford chortled. Blood flew this way and that as the wreccans’ hands delved into the rive to expeditiously extract the more delectable organs. The wifhands rejoiced, in awe of the scarlet spectacle. The blonde was in shock now. Very quickly, her ankles were tied, she was hung upside down against the wall on an iron hook, and her head was cut off with a machete. The body still twitched for a time, as the stump bled like a spigot into a small chettle. The helot’s head, too, was cut off, and both were tossed into the fire, to cook. The blonde was gutted similarly, then all of the organs were thrown into the chettle. Seasonings were added, and the chettle was set on the fire.