v1 CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: (18+) In which autonomously generated pleasure resists authority and shame

Yael said, “Do not let them inside of us. Don’t let them know what we say to each other, what we think. They can do what they like, but we are immortal.”

Micki said, “I don’t understand. How can I hide? Stripped, beaten…”

Yael said, “All flesh is clay. We keep healing, we keep transforming.”

Micki said, “I just want… I just want to be myself.”

Yael said, “You have been yourself. Your memories remain. You are always you. You will be yourself. You will become yourself--something new.”

Micki said, “Who will take me there? Who will take me from this place?”

Yael said, “We will go together, hand in hand. Then we will fly.”

***

The next day, two men in white jackets came and held Micki down as Sister Mary Margaret brandished a pair of shears. The elderly nun cut Micki’s hair brusquely, chopping away the silky locks that she’d grown proud of. When she finished, Micki’s hair was short and uneven; she looked even more like a child, shorn and waif-like. They’d given her shapeless white shirts and pants to cover her curves in layers of plain cloth. Micki covered her eyes with her hands.

“Are you ready to be brave, little mouse?” Yael asked when they were alone.

Micki nodded.

“Tomorrow. But tonight, we practice.”

After lights out, Micki lay in bed, curling up as was now her habit, trying to get warm. She put a hand between her legs; the posture comforted her. She cupped her sex protectively. Then she felt Yael’s fingers entwine with hers. She couldn’t see the succubus anywhere; it was dark, and Yael couldn’t manifest fully without tripping some kind of spirit alarm. But she could feel that warm red hand holding hers, covering her vulva with a tender touch.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Micki said.

She could feel Yael--her hands on her body, breath in her ear. “I like you very much, my pet.”

“I like you too,” Micki said. “If you don’t want to be me anymore, that is. Or me to be you--I don’t know which it is. Maybe we can just… exist side by side?”

Yael said nothing for a long moment. “I must teach you something important. Something only for yourself.” She pressed closer into Micki’s backside; she felt Yael’s hand move her own hand, a finger at a time. “A succubus can pleasure herself. For others, we always entangle our desire and hunger with theirs. Solitary, a succubus may think of her pleasure alone. Our pleasure. May I show you, Micki Belmont?”

Micki said nothing. She didn’t answer my question, but did I really expect her to?

“May I show you the way we pleasure ourselves, little sister?”

“Yes,” Micki said.

Yael’s other hand brushed the side of her face. One finger traced her lips. The next two fingers--with the thumb pushing her lip down--caressed the insides of her mouth. “Repeat after me.” Micki moved her own hand to her face, across her lips, feeling the inside of her mouth from the other side.

Yael took Micki’s hand from her mouth and guided it down: extending Micki’s fingers, sliding them across her nipple, her sternum, her waist. Yael brought the hand to her vulva once more. “Say this word: hani-yuo-toa.” Micki’s hand felt the warm wetness from within her. She could feel Yael’s hand guiding her own. But only her own fingers touched her labia, slipped between them.

“Hani-yuo-toa,” said Micki. “What is that? Aramaic?”

“Shhh,” said Yael. “Feel it happen.” Yael nudged Micki’s fingers into a new shape, a ring that circled her clit, fingertips tickling the hood. Yael’s hand guided Micki’s in tracing ellipses around her clit like the petals of a flower--a flower that glowed hot, purple and yellow in the space behind her eyelids. Micki felt herself jerk as her fingers circled her clit and somehow encouraged it, engorging until it was a thick little knob.

“Hani-yuo-toa,” Micki said.

Yael continued to guide her hand; Micki could feel her fingers massaging the hood of her clit, pulling it out gently from its nestling place, stretching it until it was taut, then releasing again and again. Yael took her other hand and curled three fingers into a hook. She guided that hand to Micki’s asshole.

“Hani-yuo-toa,” Micki said. “What does it mean?”

“Shhh,” said Yael. “Feel it happen.” Yael’s fingers helped Micki part her ass-ring like an eye opening to see the sun. Under the warmth of Yael’s soft touch, Micki could feel her sphincter relax--opening, then closing, then opening, then closing. She felt as if her insides, back and front, were expanding. Each time she opened, she felt the cool air of the room on her anus and vulva. Each time she closed, her flesh was hot and moist from her fingers. Her clit pulling and thrusting, her asshole stretching and relaxing. A circle, rolling around inside her. Hani-yuo-toa.

Yael was holding her. Micki knew what to do now, as if by instinct. She circled her clit with one thumb and slipped her other fingers into herself; she felt her vagina spasm and flutter, like a little mouth sucking her fingers in. Micki’s ass-ring was open wide, hot and wet with lubrication flowing from her pussy; Yael’s hands guided her fingers into the ring, pushing them in so that they could slip out again with each movement of her hips. She bucked in a slow rhythm as if she was riding a great, barely moving wave.

“Hani-yuo-toa,” said Micki. “What does it mean?”

Yael’s voice was low--so low Micki could barely hear it. “What does what mean?”

“Hani-yuo-toa.” She was riding on and on, the waves building. Fingers slipping in and out of her hungry cunt, her throbbing ass, her clit rubbing against her fingers and its hood, filling her entire self like a balloon. The room felt warm; she felt as if someone had rubbed her whole body with a hot cloth. A circle of light. A circle of darkness. A circle of heat. A circle of pain. Hani-yuo-toa. Hani-yuo-toa. Suddenly her tail was there too, plunging into her vagina, filling her with heat and pressure. They’d injected it with something that left it limp, hanging, but the circle of pleasure had revived it.

“Hani-yuo-toa,” Micki said. She shuddered. Her back arched off the bed, and she fell forward onto her hands. It didn’t matter. Yael’s hands held her up, her fingers working deep inside her, her tail pumping into her cunt like a lover. Micki could feel her orgasm building, but slower and deeper than she’d known; it mounted towards a distinct feeling--like a fire spreading out from her clit and spiraling through every part of her body. A feeling so intense it hurt, unforgettable pleasure mixed with pain.

“It means…” whispered Yael. Micki was groaning, babbling, trying to stay quiet but failing. She doubled over, working at herself frantically, the circle tightening and loosening, spiraling in towards the center of herself. Hani-yuo-toa. “… pleasure.”

Micki’s eyes flew open and rolled back. She gasped; Yael’s fingers were still inside her. Her ass-ring was gripping them. She could feel her spine arching off the bed again and again. One of her feet kicked out, hitting the wall. The other foot was on the bed. She thrashed, the circle contracting to a point, then bursting in red-hot teardrops through her consciousness.

“Good girl,” said Yael. Micki’s eyes rolled back like a lizard’s--her tongue lolled out. Yael’s fingers slid out of her. She could feel the pleasure draining away, leaving her empty but fulfilled at once. Her toes curled. “Now. I want you to do that again. On your own. Practice. We have until morning.” Yael seemed more tangible somehow, less like a ghost and more like her old self. Pleasure, she thought. It feeds us. Our food.

Micki got back to work, moving her hand to the side of her face, her lips, her mouth…

***

Sister Mary Margaret found Micki in the morning, wearing only the long white top of her prisoner’s uniform, still touching herself.  She’d soaked her bedsheets with the sweat of her exertions and stained them with the juices of her sex. The girl kept murmuring something; words too soft to make out. On her knees in bed, her left hand moved between her legs, her tail writhing there as well. A huge wet spot glistened on the sheets underneath her hips. She stared ahead with a glazed, vacant expression, in a state of rapture.

The nun’s face twitched, tensing in a paroxysm of rage. She clutched at her habit and brought out a crucifix, brandishing it.

“Sinner!” she cried. “You have sinned in thought, word, and deed--in your carnal lusts and in your foul labors with them. You have sinned against the Lord by offending your own body!”

Micki looked up from her pleasure, a moment of confusion in her eyes, then saw the cross and began smiling. “Our father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name… hani-yuo toa.”

The nun’s face contorted; her eyes flared like a demon’s. “No! You have denied the Father!” She was shaking, rage tangibly boiling out of her.

Micki was still smiling. “Of course,” she said. “I needed to change. But He will not deny me. God loves me as one of his children, prodigal though I may be.” She slid her tongue along her lips and licked them clean, then took her tail with one hand and rubbed the tip against her vulva, displaying her naked sex proudly to Sister Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret inhaled once, then again, as if bottling anger like steam. She grabbed furiously at Micki’s wrist; the cross grazed Micki’s cheek. The demi-succubus still seemed lost in pleasure, but her tail slipped free and coiled around the nun’s arm.

“We want to play, Sister…” Micki cooed with a strange cadence. “Let us play.” The nun convulsed like a rag doll, her back arching as she fought against the demonic influence of Micki’s words. Her voice rose to a wail. “Sinner! Sinner! I command you to repent!”

Micki’s demeanor changed, and her tail fell limp. “Oh, Sister! I’m sorry. I repent.” She kneeled on the bed, spreading her knees wide and raising her hands in prayer. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The nun’s tension ebbed; she looked at Micki with a mixture of pity and loathing. “Get out,” she said. “You are not one of God’s children.”

Micki’s face crumpled. “I was,” she said. “…and always will be. But really, you want me to get out? Okay!” She bounced to her feet and hurried towards the door. Sister Mary Margaret turned, grabbing at her. Micki stopped short.

“Sister! Please… just let me go! You don’t want me here; I sure don’t want to be here…” The nun grabbed Micki by the arm and yanked her forward. Micki tripped, falling to the floor. The nun held her down with one hand; the other clutched her crucifix like a weapon. She brought the cross down on Micki’s head. The nun was wiry and strong for a woman who looked so elderly, but the blow glanced off the side of Micki’s shaved head.

“Attendant!” screamed Sister Mary Margaret! “My baton!” Micki couldn’t see what was happening, but then Mary Margaret rolled off her.

One of the white-jacketed men handed Mary Margaret a heavy-looking club, long and fashioned from dark wood. She’d been using it like a walking stick when Micki had first awakened in this place, she remembered. It looked like the sort of heavy stick that a sadistic boy might use to beat helpless animals with, not a weapon of self-defense.

The attendant had a thick leather strap in his hands; he caught Micki easily, then wrapped the strap around Micki’s neck. She sputtered and choked, then stopped resisting, falling to her knees. When the chokehold relaxed, she smiled up at the nun with watery eyes. “Whatcha gonna do to me, Sister Mary Margaret? Have I earned a punishment?”

The older woman said nothing, then drove one end of the rod into Micki’s stomach. She doubled over, gasping in pain.

Yael hissed in her ear. “Say this now, under your breath: pellis sicut corium, caro sicut lignum.”

Micki whispered through her rasping breaths for air, keeping her face to the floor. “Pellis sicut corium, caro sicut lignum.”

“What was that?!” screamed the nun, her face contorted into a mask of wrinkles and outrage.

Micki looked up. “Thank you, Sister. I deserve that. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

Mary Margaret struck her again; Micki crumpled to the floor, more from surprise than pain. The blow caught her on the shoulder, but she’d barely felt more than a dull thud. Discomfort, shock, and some pain, but far from unbearable.

Micki rose to her feet. “You’re right, Sister. I need you to beat that demoness out of me. I want to be whole again… please, help me!” A wicked glint gleamed in her eye.

The Sister could not control herself. She struck Micki on the back of the shoulders, buckling the smaller woman again. The nun’s demeanor bespoke contempt or victory, like a boxer who’d just scored a direct blow on an opponent. Micki did not cower, but stood again, slightly unsteady.

“Thank you, Sister! May I have another?” Micki was laughing now. “You’re so strong in your faith, Sister! Beat the sin out of me!”

Sister Mary Margaret struck again and again, with rage and frustration: Micki barely flinched, swaying like a sapling in a breeze. She bent over, lifting her haunches with both hands. “Sister, the succubus has made my hindquarters fleshy and round, like two great melons! These cheeks lead me into sin; please punish them!”

This time when the blow landed on her rear, Micki’s head jerked back with the sheer blunt force of it. Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “Thank you, Sister! Please, punish my ass! I am a temptress! I have strayed from the path of righteousness! Please punish my ass!”

The nun snarled wordlessly and struck her again, but Mick found each blow easier to bear and absorb. Hell’s bells, thought Micki. This ancient bitch is really getting into it. She could sense the Sister’s strange desire mounting: a combination of hatred, sadism, and self-loathing.

“Filth! Filth! Filth!” repeated Mary Margaret, like an incantation.

Micki smiled. “Yes, Sister! Pellis sicut corium, caro sicut--oh fuck!” The blow had landed squarely on the lowest part of her buttocks, the sensation rippling through her vulva and leaving her clit tingling. “Oh, fuck yeah…”

Micki’s eyes swerved. “Pellis sicut corium, caro sicut--fuck me!” She screamed and fell to the floor again. Sweat drenched her body. “Fuck me please, Sister. Put that rod inside of me.”

The nun stared down at the writhing girl’s body, her expression filled with disgust, loathing, and… something else. A gleam in her eye.

“I’ll teach you--I’ll teach you to mock the Lord’s name!” Mary Margaret screamed and struck Micki once more with the rod. The blow knocked the wind from Micki’s body.

She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body quaked, on fire with the vibrating blows. Again and again, the nun pummeled her buttocks and thighs. Grunting with anger, the old woman reached down to rake Micki’s body with her long, dirty nails, leaving gouges in her flesh. One of her hands brushed across Micki’s cunt, and Micki moaned in ecstasy.

“Keep going, Sister… don’t stop! Don’t stop!” screamed Micki. “You can’t stop, don’t you dare stop!”

The nun didn’t stop; her blows became slower, more deliberate, each one harder than the last. The beating pummeled thought and sense out of Micki until at least Mary Margaret was out of breath. Micki rolled over, still panting, but more with desire than pain. The incantation had protected her. If not for those words, it occurred to her, I’d not only bear bruises; I’d have shattered bones. What is this woman? She crawled over on her knees, grabbing for the baton, lifting its tip to her mouth.

“I am--I am a sinful woman. I have sinned against God,” she whispered. “And now I need to be punished.”

Sister Mary Margaret raised the rod again.

“No, Sister! No!” begged Micki. “Not that! Anything but that!” Sister Mary Margaret struck her heavily on the side of her left breast, exposed by a tear in her shirt. “Oh, God! God forgive me,” moaned Micki. She grabbed at the rod, moved a leg over it, began to grind herself against it. “Help me, Sister! I can’t help myself… the beast within is too strong!” She wrestled with Mary Margaret for the baton.

“Get off, wretched filth of Hell!” the nun screamed.

“Please, Sister! Please put it inside of me!” cried Micki. “I need you to fuck me; please fuck me! I need to be fucked like a whore!”

This time, the nun did not recoil. She shifted her hips and looked down at Micki’s soaked body--a pool of sweat, the glistening curve of one exposed ass cheek, her swollen labia dripping with excitement. Mary Margaret’s eyes fell to her own hand, still holding the baton slick with Micki’s juices. That hand trembled, and the flesh at her wrists started to crackle and peel.

“Oh, fuck yes,” moaned the demi-succubus. “Yes! I’m going to come again! Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!” She lifted a leg up and held it, presenting her cunt to view.

The nun grabbed the baton and struck her. Micki threw her head back and screamed. With a strange look on her face, Mary Margaret took the baton and slid it into Micki’s gaping pussy. Micki’s tail wrapped around Mary Margaret’s waist. They both moved together, grinding against each other like animals--a beast; a succubus; a woman; a nun; a monster. Micki’s moans became the most animalistic, guttural sounds she’d ever heard, grunting, panting, and growling. Mary Margaret let out a cry like a bird’s.

“I’m coming!” shouted Micki. “Yes, yes! Yes, Sister, yes!”

Her orgasm tore through her whole body like an electric shock, her pussy clenching on the rod still buried inside her. She thrust her hips forward, not caring if she collided with the floor or the other woman’s body; she just wanted to feel that brutal length deep inside of her.

The nun’s body convulsed. Micki watched as Mary Margaret’s eyes rolled back and the flesh under her arms began to ripple. Micki’s hands grabbed the nun’s neck and pulled her closer. “What… what are you!?” she screamed.

The skin on Sister Mary Margaret’s fingers peeled back, exposing long, sharp claws--the same talons that had ripped into Micki’s legs earlier, in the guise of nails; the cruel claws that had beaten her, belittled her, slapped her, cursed her.

“You fraud!” screamed Micki, her own hatred surfacing. “You’re a monster, not a woman.”

Sister Mary Margaret’s face contorted into a hybrid of a beast’s and a human’s. The hair around the edges of her habit looked more like feathers. She scrambled backward. “Look at what you made me do, accursed whore! May you rot in Stygia!”

The nun’s body wracked with spasms as she pushed herself away from Micki. Inside of Micki, her own demonic surged and pulsed, crackling across her skin, but she was too far gone to care. Her eyes were closed, her body convulsing with the joy of release, the ecstasy of sex, the satisfaction of mastering a tormentor, satiated by a creature that reviled her, but who could not deny her power, her desire, her orgasm.

“I’m so hot…” moaned Micki. “I’m burning with it. Oh, Yael!”

“Let it happen,” hissed Yael. “Oh, my little succubus.”

Micki opened her eyes and saw that her own skin was cracking, fractures and lines spreading across her flesh, not only upon her arms, but on her bare belly, across her legs. The sensation of pressure and heat from beneath the top layer of her skin was becoming unbearable, and she gave in to an unbearable impulse to scratch at herself, tearing the skin away like a snake shedding scales.

The attendant had fled somewhere, sounds of yelling filling the halls. Sister Mary Margaret hunched over as if trying to hide her hands. Dark red splotches stained her habit--blood? Micki could barely hear what the nun was saying:

“Monsters! Hideous monsters! The compact!”

Micki felt something break inside of her. The tide of pleasure faded slightly, and she realized she was changing again. Her skin! What was happening to her skin?

Her body was still crackling with energy; bits of her were skin flaking off. Was she too turning into a monster? Was she already one? She itched and rubbed at herself. Beneath her outer layer, her skin was smooth, supple, burgundy red. Just like Yael’s.

Somewhere, an alarm sounded. The lights flickered and something great and unseen groaned, like a tree in the wind. Yael’s voice called out, but Micki could not understand the words.

Micki gazed at her flesh. Like paint from a burning house, her old skin was peeling, fluttering up, floating away, disintegrating. She ran her hands across her hips and legs, peeling whole stretches of her skin off her breasts, her waist, her ass. She smiled as she pictured herself, naked as Aphrodite rising from the sea--but obscenely demonic, covered with peeling flesh, turning a shade somewhere between deep lacquer and dried blood, her head shorn.

A figure leaned in the doorway. Priest’s cassock, neatly trimmed beard. Thomas Spencer’s eyes were cold, his expression grave.

“Monsignor!” screeched the birdlike nun, covering her claws ineffectively in her robes. Spencer looked at her with a scowl.

“Go clean yourself up, Mary Margaret. You know the penance.”

The nun rushed away, mumbling to herself. The sight of her new flesh entranced Micki--her skin flaking like a shell from an egg, peeling open to reveal her insides; she couldn’t even spare the attention to look at Spencer. She felt him staring at her, appraising her. She sensed no desire in him, not sexual desire at least; instead, the feeling was of someone probing her, testing her.

“Father Michael. Step over to your bed, please.”

Micki turned to look at the Monsignor, her head swiveling slowly. She was losing control of her body and stumbled as she walked. Spencer held out a hand and caught her by the arm. He spun her around and led her. Micki followed him across the room. His eyes narrowed, appraising her.

“You will be more comfortable in this. It’s cold in here.” Spencer was holding a straitjacket, opening it so she could put her arms in. He was right, she supposed. It was cold; she was nearly naked. She could always scrub the rest of her old skin off later.

Spencer fastened the straitjacket around her; he was closer than she’d expected, his scent musky and sharp. Cologne and hair oil. He held up his hands as if about to give a benediction. Micki tried to twist out of his grip--she needed to touch him, to taste him, to understand and master his desires.

“Calm yourself, Michael.” Micki didn’t know what he meant. She felt quite calm, abruptly exhaled, relaxing. Ahh, that’s better. Yes, it’s better to be calm.

As her mind cleared, she noticed Spencer held a blade. It was sharp and silver. He had been holding it at her neck the whole time. In case of resistance? The edge glinted in the light.

She must have looked terrified. Spencer shook his head and put the blade away. He pushed her towards the bed like a lamb. There were restraints on the wall, which he buckled around her wrists and ankles. It’s nice to be so relaxed, so calm.

“Lie down, Michael. You’ll feel better soon.” She did so and started feeling better almost right away. I’ll feel better soon.

“Sleep now.” She closed her eyes.