Incubus Claims the Wife

The moving truck had barely cleared the curb when Yolanda felt the house notice her. She was twenty-eight, soft through the hips and heavy in the chest, her brown skin still warm from the August sun, and she stood in the empty foyer of the suburban colonial with a box of sheets against her belly and the strange, certain sense that something in the walls had turned its head. Lorenzo came in behind her, thirty and pale from a week of packing, already talking about the mortgage rate and the good school district they would never use. She let him talk. The air tasted like cedar and something sweeter, like skin after a long night.

They spent the first evening unpacking the kitchen. Lorenzo whistled off-key. Yolanda kept pausing with a glass in her hand, listening. Once she was sure she heard a low voice, not words, just the shape of a man’s breath in the hallway. When she looked, the hall was empty and the light over the stairs had dimmed without anyone touching the switch.

“Old wiring,” Lorenzo said, and kissed her temple the way he always did when he wanted a subject closed. His mouth was familiar and kind and nowhere near enough. She had loved him for four years of ordinary nights, and she still did, in the way a woman loves a good house she has already outgrown. She did not say that. She rinsed a glass and tried to ignore the heat gathering low in her stomach for no reason she could name.

Reid watched from the seam between the pantry and the dark. He had worn this house longer than either of them had been alive, an incubus bound to its timber and its thresholds, and he had the body of a man in his early thirties: tall, black, thick through the chest and arms, with a mouth made for ruin. He hated the husband on sight. Lorenzo’s voice scraped. Lorenzo’s hands were careful and small. Lorenzo slept in Reid’s rooms as if ownership were a paper and not a hunger. The incubus could have driven him out in a night. He did not, because the wife had walked through the door and the whole house had gone quiet around her scent.

Yolanda. He tasted the name without speaking it. Curvy, dark, tired in a way that made her shoulders drop when she thought no one was looking. He wanted his mouth on the slope of her neck. He wanted his cock, thick and heavy and thirteen inches when he let it show, buried so deep she forgot the pale man in the next room. The want hit him like a hand around the throat. Incubi did not fall. Reid fell anyway, standing in his own shadow, furious at the husband and already lost to the wife.

That night Lorenzo slept on his side, one arm flung toward the empty half of the mattress. Yolanda lay awake in a T-shirt and panties, listening to the house settle. The settle did not sound like wood. It sounded like a man shifting his weight just beyond the door.

She dreamed him before she met him. In the dream the bedroom was the same and warmer, and a dark man stood at the foot of the bed with his shirt open and his eyes fixed on her mouth. He did not touch her. He only said her name in a voice like smoke over honey and promised her she would not have to pretend she was full. She woke with her hand between her thighs and Lorenzo still snoring, and she lay there shaking, angry at herself and wet enough that the cotton clung.

The second night the dream went further. Reid stepped out of the dark at the edge of the mattress and let her look. His cock hung thick against his thigh, darker than the rest of him, long enough that her dream-self made a helpless sound. Thirteen inches, he told her, calm as a man stating the weather, and every inch of it meant for her. He stroked himself once, slow, and the head gleamed. Yolanda reached. She woke before her fingers closed, gasping, Lorenzo mumbling her name without opening his eyes. She told him it was nothing. She went to the bathroom and came on her own fingers with the incubus’s voice still in her ear, and she did not feel ashamed until after.

By the third afternoon Lorenzo had driven into the city for a client dinner. The house went still the moment his car left the driveway. Yolanda was in the bedroom folding his shirts when the air changed, warmer, sweeter, and Reid was simply there, solid, barefoot on the rug, wearing low black pants and nothing else. Up close he was bigger than the dream. Muscle moved under his skin when he breathed. His eyes were dark and hungry and fixed on her as if the rest of the world had been cleared out to make room.

“You’re awake,” he said. “Good. I was tired of only having you when you slept.”

She should have screamed. She set the shirt down instead, because her body had already recognized him and her pulse had already answered. “You’re real.”

“Reid.” He did not offer his hand. He offered the truth. “This house is mine. Your husband is a guest I do not want. You are not a guest. I have wanted you since you carried that box through my door.”

“Lorenzo lives here,” she said, and heard how thin it sounded.

“He sleeps here.” Reid’s mouth curved, not kind. “He does not fill you. I can smell it on you. You woke up wet for me two nights running and you finished yourself in my bathroom saying a name you did not know yet.” He stepped closer. Heat came off him. “Say no and I will stand in the hall until he comes home and I will not touch you. Say yes and I will show you what has been aching for your hands.”

Yolanda’s mouth was dry. Her nipples were tight against her tank top. She thought of Lorenzo’s careful mouth and the way she had started turning her face so his kisses landed on her cheek. She thought of the dream and the weight she had almost held. “Show me,” she said. “I’m saying yes to looking. I’m twenty-eight and married and I am choosing this with my eyes open. If I want you to stop, you stop.”

“Always,” Reid said, and the word landed like a vow.

He pushed the pants down. His cock sprang free, heavy, veined, the color of dark wood, so long it made her breath catch and so thick her thighs pressed together on instinct. He took himself in one fist and stroked from the root toward the head, and there was still a shocking length left beyond his grip. “Thirteen,” he said quietly. “All of it for you, when you want it. Not before.”

She crossed the rug on unsteady legs. Her fingers hovered, then wrapped around him, and her hand did not meet around that girth. He was hot. He pulsed. A bead of clear fluid welled at the tip and she smeared it with her thumb, watching his stomach tighten. Reid groaned, low, and did not grab her. He let her learn him. She stroked him once, twice, slow, amazed at the weight, at the way her whole body answered as if he had already been inside her.

“Touch me,” she said.

His hands were large and sure. He cupped her breasts through the thin cotton, thumbs circling her nipples until she arched into his palms. He kissed her then, deep and unhurried, and she opened for it, tasting smoke and something sweet. One broad hand slid down her stomach, under the waistband of her shorts, and found her soaked. He groaned into her mouth when his fingers slipped through her folds.

“Already,” he murmured. “And I have not even put my mouth on this pretty pussy yet.”

“Lorenzo doesn’t—he’s never—” She could not finish. Reid’s finger circled her clit with a patience her husband had never learned, and her knees buckled. He caught her. He did not push inside. He only rubbed her until she was shaking, whispering that he could smell how much she wanted to be split open, that he would wait until she asked for the whole length, that her husband could have the shirts and the mortgage and not one more night of her pretending.

She came on his hand with her forehead against his chest, biting her own lip, hips rolling shamelessly. When the shaking eased she looked down at his cock, still hard, shining with her thumb’s work and his own need, and she understood she was not going to stop at touching.

“Not tonight,” she said, voice wrecked, choosing it. “He’ll be home late. I want you when I can be loud. I want the bed. I want all of it. Come back tomorrow when he’s gone and do not be gentle unless I ask.”

Reid kissed her swollen mouth and smiled like a man who had already won and was glad of it. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll ruin you properly. And Yolanda—I am not visiting. I am staying. I fell for you. I do not intend to climb back out.”

She believed him. That frightened her less than how much she wanted it to be true.

Lorenzo came home smelling of wine and city rain and talked about the client while she nodded and felt Reid’s spend-slick absence between her legs like a brand. In bed her husband reached for her. She turned into his chest and held him, guilty and already gone, and did not let his hand travel south. Somewhere in the dark of the house, Reid listened to the husband’s heartbeat and disliked him with a clean, total contempt. The wife’s pulse was different. It ran toward the incubus even in her sleep.

The next day Lorenzo left for a site visit two towns over and said he would not be back before midnight. Yolanda showered, put on a silk robe and nothing under it, and stood in the bedroom with her heart hammering. She did not have to call. Reid stepped out of the late light by the window, naked, cock already thick and lifting, eyes on the robe as if he could see through it.

“Still yes?” he asked.

“Still yes.” She untied the belt and let the silk fall. Her body was all curve and warm brown skin, breasts full, thighs soft, the neat dark hair above her pussy already damp. “I want you. I want that cock. I want you to fuck me in this room until I can’t remember how my husband feels. I’m choosing you, Reid. Breed me if that’s what you came to do. Just don’t stop when I get loud.”

He crossed the room in three strides. His mouth hit hers hard, and this time there was no patience in it, only the hunger he had been leashing. He walked her backward until her shoulders met the wall beside the bed, lifted one of her thighs high against his hip, and notched the broad head of his cock against her entrance. She was dripping. The stretch still stole her breath.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. He pushed in, inch by brutal inch, standing, holding her open, and the thickness forced a broken moan out of her throat. Her pussy clutched and fluttered and yielded. He did not slam. He fed her his length until her belly felt impossibly full and her heel dug into the small of his back and there were still inches left that made her eyes roll.

“God—Reid—you’re so deep—”

“Not God.” He drew back and thrust, a long, heavy stroke that pinned her to the plaster. “Your incubus. Say it.”

“My incubus.” The words came out shredded. He fucked her against the wall in a standing press, one hand under her ass, the other braced beside her head, his cock driving up into her with wet, obscene sounds. Each stroke kissed places Lorenzo had never reached. Her breasts bounced against his chest. Sweat slicked the place where his stomach met hers. She clawed his shoulders and took him, whimpering, chasing the drag of that enormous shaft.

“Better,” she gasped, because it was, and because he deserved to hear it. “You’re better than him. Thicker. Deeper. He never—ah—never filled me like this. Don’t you dare pull out.”

Reid growled and fucked her harder, the head of his cock nudging her cervix with every plunge, her slick running down his balls. She came like that, pinned and split, crying his name into his throat while her pussy spasmed around a length she could barely hold. He did not let her come down. He carried her, still buried to the hilt, the few steps to the marital bed and bent her over the edge of it, the same sheets she had folded for Lorenzo.

“Hands on the mattress,” he said. “Arch. I want every inch.”

She obeyed, cheek to the quilt, ass up, presenting herself. Reid gripped her hips and sank back in from behind, and the new angle let him seat the full thirteen. Yolanda screamed into the bedding, a raw sound of pleasure so sharp it blurred. He pulled almost all the way out, until the fat head tugged at her entrance, then drove home again, balls slapping her clit. The bed that belonged to her marriage rocked under them.

“Listen to this pussy,” he said, voice rough with devotion and filth. “Soaked. Greedy. Taking all of me like it was built for an incubus cock. Your husband gets the dry little polite fucks. I get this. I get you dripping down your thighs while I own you.”

“Yes—own it—fuck, Reid, ruin it—” She shoved back to meet him, beyond shame, beyond the ring on the nightstand. “Harder. I can take it. I want to feel you in my stomach. I want this bed to smell like you fucked his wife stupid.”

He gave her that. Deep, pounding doggy, his dark hands spanning her waist, his cock a relentless thick claim, the wet slap of their bodies filling the suburban quiet. Her ass rippled with every impact. She babbled, told him he was bigger, better, that Lorenzo could never make her squirt, and then she did, a hot rush around his shaft as she came again, thighs shaking, voice breaking on his name. Reid cursed, hauled her up against his chest for three more savage strokes, and then flipped her onto her back before either of them could cool.

He folded her in half. Mating press. Her knees by her shoulders, his weight over her, his cock spearing straight down into the soaked, fluttering clutch of her pussy. Yolanda’s eyes went wide at the depth. She could not move except to take him. She did not want to move.

“Look at me while I breed you,” Reid said. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto her breasts. His hips rolled, grinding the full length inside her, the head seated so deep she felt owned in her bones. “You want my child. Say it. Ask me to ruin this pretty married pussy and fill it until it takes.”

“Please.” She was crying and smiling, hands fisted in his arms, completely willing, completely his in that moment. “Ruin me. Claim me. Cum in me, Reid. Breed me. I want your baby. I want to be so full of you I can’t walk back to him. Put it all in. I’m yours. I love—God, I love how you fuck me, I love you, don’t stop, don’t you ever stop—”

The confession ripped out of her on a moan and she meant it. Not only the cock. Him. The way he had seen her hunger and refused to let her shrink it. Reid’s rhythm broke. He fucked her through the words, deep and desperate, kissing her sloppy and sweet even while his cock battered her open. Her third orgasm hit like a seizure, pussy milking him, and he followed with a roar against her mouth, hips jammed flush, pumping thick, hot pulses of incubus seed as deep as a body could hold it. She felt each spurt. She felt the strange, living heat of it take root, a pleasure past ordinary cum, and she locked her ankles behind him and held him there while he emptied himself, whispering yes, yes, breed me, stay.

They stayed locked, sweating, interracial and wrecked, his dark body covering her brown one on the white husband’s bed. He kissed her eyelids. He told her he had fallen the first hour and would not give her back. She believed that too. When he finally eased out, a flood of his seed followed, and he pushed two fingers in to keep it where he had put it, watching her shiver and smile.

“Again,” she said, hoarse, already reaching for his still-hard cock. “Before he comes home. I want to be ruined twice.”

He gave her twice. Then a third time on her side, slow, his hand on her belly as if he could already feel what they had started. She fell asleep for a few minutes in his arms and woke still wanting, and he was careful not to take her while she drifted. When she opened her eyes and pulled him back in, he fucked her like a man in love who happened to have a cock that could end a marriage.

Lorenzo’s key turned in the lock near one in the morning. Reid was gone from the bed and not gone from the house. Yolanda showered, legs unsteady, pussy swollen and leaking, and met her husband in the kitchen in a clean robe. He looked at her flushed face and almost asked. He did not. Some animal part of him already knew the rooms had stopped being his.

Weeks later the change was no longer something she could hide under a robe. Demonic seed did not wait on human calendars. Yolanda’s belly had rounded, high and firm, her breasts heavier, her walk a slow proud sway. She stood in the open front doorway in the late light, one hand on the curve of their child, and Reid stood against her, dressed only enough for a suburban street, kissing her as if the cul-de-sac did not exist. She kissed him back with her whole mouth, in love, owned and owning, the thirteen inches he kept for her nights already stirring against her hip.

Behind them, in the hall, Lorenzo zipped the last suitcase. He was thirty and pale and finished. He had watched her stop pretending. He had heard her moan another man’s name through a door she no not longer bothered to lock, and he had seen the way her hand rested on a belly that was not his. He did not shout. The incubus had never liked him, and the house had made that plain in a hundred small cruelties, but what drove him out was simpler. His wife had fallen all the way in love with the dark, hung creature who haunted their rooms, and she had looked at Lorenzo that morning with kindness and no desire left in it.

“I’ll send for the rest,” Lorenzo said. His voice barely carried. He did not look at Reid’s hand on her waist. “You can have the house.”

“I already do,” Yolanda said, not cruel, only true. “I’m sorry it wasn’t you. I’m not sorry for him.”

Reid did not gloat. He only held her, disliked the husband to the last, and watched the man carry his bags down the walk they had once planned to share. Lorenzo paused at the curb, reluctant even then, one hand on the car door, looking back at the wife he was leaving and the life swelling under her dress. She did not wave. She turned her face up and kissed her incubus again, deep and certain, while Reid’s palm spread over the child he had bred into her.

The engine started. The car pulled away. The suburban street went quiet around a wife who had been claimed, ruined, and filled, standing in the doorway of a house that finally matched her hunger.

Reid rested his forehead against hers, the feared thing, the haunting, and waited to be told where he was allowed to stand, because the last of his power had gone into her hands the moment she chose him.