Works/Incubus

Now I see why nobody comes here in the off season, Mary thought, shivering as she scanned the deserted beach. Well, I can't complain it's too crowded.

She started to button her sweater - the wind, flapping the ends about, made this unexpectedly challenging - then turned around and went back up the short boardwalk which was the hotel's sole beach access. Maybe a bath beforehand, she thought. Maybe even a nap.

The main building of the hotel, containing the blandly termed "function rooms," had been a magnate's personal Xanadu many years ago, back when millionaires were still millionaires and their houses were visible from the highway. The guest rooms were add-ons; they looked like every other hotel room on earth, plus a few features clearly designed for the egos of jaded executives. Like the telephone by the toilet. Mary still found that vaguely unnerving, but then, no more so than the rest of the conference.

She sighed and reread the agenda for no particular good reason. Tonight was an open buffet and cocktail party until the wee hours, "so that everyone can get to know each other." The people within a caste already knew each other, she reflected for the thousandth time. And the higher-ups didn't give a damn about meeting the underlings. The conversation would be forced as everyone came to the realization - what a surprise! - that all they knew how to talk to each other about was work. Along about one a.m. someone would get drunk and overstep the bounds of protocol, and that would give everyone something to gossip about during the endless seminar the next day.

Mary found herself thinking about Joe, who was probably sitting in his recliner right now, watching whatever sport was in season, with his beer and maybe a TV dinner for haute cuisine. She stretched out on the bed and put her face in the pillow. If she cried, she wouldn't be able to cover up the red marks in time for dinner and then she'd be the sacrificial gossip victim.

She realized that the sensation she felt was someone tapping on her shoulder. She screamed, rolled over, and drew her knees up into a ball. There was a man standing next to her bed, wearing a hotel uniform, like a bellhop or valet. His arms were crossed and he appeared to be slightly amused.

"You requested a bath?" he asked.

"Who are you? I didn't request anything. You can't just come into my room like this .... Hey!" He had gone into the bathroom. She heard the sound of running water.

She got up and looked around for a blunt instrument. Unless she could heft and swing one of the desk lamps, nothing seemed likely. A dash for the door, then. She sprinted down the corridor in her stocking feet. Two minutes later, panting, she stopped. The red EXIT sign was just as far away as it had been. She turned, and there was the door to her room. Right there.

She stared at it blankly. I will not scream, she thought. She walked a few more steps down the hall. Experimentally. Still standing by her door.

She opened the door and went back inside.

"Your bath's almost ready," he said, over the sound of the water. She waited a moment to see if her hands would stop shaking, and then walked into the bathroom.

"What the hell is going on here?" she asked.

"I'm here to give you a bath," he replied simply. "Ah, there we go." He turned off the water. She'd noticed before that the tub was an odd shape for a hotel - deep and circular. Steam rose from it in clouds, and floated past her, out the doorway.

"I can't get to the rest of the hotel," she said. "The hallway won't let me."

"You're dreaming," he replied, moving behind her. He began to unbutton her dress.

"Hey!"

"Shh." He unfastened all the buttons quickly, then slipped it off her shoulders, draped it over one arm. He unfastened her bra; crouched behind her, and with a hand inside the waistband on each side, teased her stockings over her hips and down her legs. "Step out of the feet, please," he said. "Good." He turned to the closet, clothes over his arm. "Tch. Shouldn't have been lying down in it," he said, assessing the dress. "Well, we'll hang it in the steam, that should do it."

She stood in the bathroom doorway, watching him. He had efficient hands with long slender fingers. The cold air from outside the bathroom ran across her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, tightening her nipples and making her shiver a little bit. He turned around. "Well, if you'd get in the tub instead of standing there, you wouldn't be cold."

She put one foot in the water. It was quite hot. Slowly she eased herself in; the water came up to her shoulders when she lay against the back of the tub. She closed her eyes and felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders loosen.

He came in with the dress on a hanger and hooked it over the top of a doorway. "All right, turn this way," he said.

"What?"

"Slide around," he said. "I need to get to your shoulders."

She moved in the tub until her back was to him. He placed a folded towel on the floor, primly, then knelt on it. He reached in and soaped her shoulders, then began to rub them with those fingers, squeezing the tendons and prodding the muscles until she was tempted to cry out. "There," he said. She slumped in the tub. He poured hot water from his cupped hands onto her head, as if baptising her, and then some sort of cold sticky substance. For a moment, she thought she was being anointed. Then she realized that he was washing her hair. His fingers worked circular patterns on her scalp.

"Feels nice?"

"Mmm," she said. "I'm going to fall asleep in the tub."

"You're already asleep."

She became aware of a pounding sound. "What's that?" she asked sleepily. He did not answer. The pounding sound became louder and she struggled to turn around in the confines of the tub ... then finally succeeded in sitting upright in bed, still in her clothes with dry hair, realizing that someone was knocking on the door.

She opened it nervously. "Hey!" It was Carrie, her sole confidante among the office mates. "What were you going to do, sleep right through dinner? Geez, have you been crying again?"

Mary felt under her eyes. They were tender. "Maybe. Look, I think I'm going to pass on dinner, okay? I don't feel too well."

"You sure? You know what happens if you miss dinner at one of these."

"That's why you're going to spread the word that I have an upset stomach."

"All right. Going to come out later?"

"I don't know. Depends on whether I feel better or not."

"Free booze ...."

"Free booze is not what I need right now, Carrie. Go on. Have one for me."

Mary locked the door as her friend walked off. Then she put the extra bolt on, just in case. She undressed, dropping clothes haphazardly on the carpet as she walked to the bathroom. She ran water in the tub, sat on its side waiting for it to fill, enjoying the cool feel of the tile against her bare feet.

I should call Joe, she mused.

No, I shouldn't. He doesn't really want to hear from me.

He doesn't really care about me.

Maybe he never did.

She set her jaw and felt another muscle in her neck turn to piano wire. Well, she thought, if I can't get my shoulders rubbed, I can at least have the soak. She climbed in, breathing deeply to let the steam enter her mouth and nose. So I guess it was a dream, she thought. My subconscious is sending me a message ... well, that's not a hard one to figure out. She closed her eyes and reached down between her legs, probed gingerly with the tip of her index finger, twitched involuntarily, and withdrew her hand like her finger had been dipped in boiling water.

"Coward."

She made a large splash, then collected herself and turned to look at him. "I never was very good at it. Certainly not now that you're in the room. Am I asleep in the bathtub? That's not safe."

"It's the wrong shape for your head to go under," he said.

He had perfectly smooth skin, a ruddy color, almost like he had been sunburned, but darker and more even. His hair was straight, short, and dark, in a disorganized near-crewcut that stuck up haphazardly in many directions. He noticed her looking at it and smoothed it back with one hand; it immediately popped back up again. His eyes were dark, dark; even in the well-lit bathroom she found it impossible to distinguish iris from pupil. She considered the consequences.

"If I turn around," she asked, "will you wash my hair again?"

"Of course," he said with a slight smile. "But first, will you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Finish what you started."

"What I - oh. I told you. Nothing would happen and certainly not with someone else in the room."

"Give it a try."

She scowled at him. "Whose dream is this, anyway?"

He leaned into the tub beside her, one hand on the rim, the other tilting her head back slightly, and kissed her. His lips, she thought, were much stronger than Joe's - though it had been a long time since Joe - and now she felt a little dizzy, as if she'd been in the steam too long - and then he pulled his lips and tongue away.

"Your body needs to be touched," he said firmly. "Touch it."

She ran each hand up the opposite arm, feeling the skin goosebump in response. She hadn't realized what she had been harboring. She touched her breasts and felt the nipples stiffen instantly, painfully. She moved her fingers down the length of her torso, under the hot water, and along her legs. Her pulse, already fast from the bath, was racing, and below the surface her clit was keeping the same tempo, generating its own heat. She touched it and felt a small contact shock.

Good God! she thought. I haven't been worked up like this since I was eighteen. She rubbed it slowly, closing her eyes and letting her neck rest against the coolness of the tub wall. She squeezed lightly between two fingers and moved them in small fast circles. Her thighs shook and her mouth fell open as she gasped for air. Then she shuddered involuntarily and opened her eyes. He was crouched by the tub, watching her intently.

"Well?" he asked. "Go on."

She involuntarily began stroking her clit with her hand again. "It's ... too hot in here," she gasped. "And the water's making it rough."

"Ah. Stop, then."

She stopped. He leaned in and kissed her, much more briefly.

"Stand up now and I'll dry you."

She stood up, dazedly, wondering that her skin still bothered to tingle where he rubbed it with the towel. He offered her an arm, and she stepped out of the tub. He bent down and dried her ankles and feet, then straightened up, tossing aside the towel.

He led her to the bed and she followed. He gestured for her to lie down and spread her legs slightly.

"I have to start over again?" she said weakly. But already her body was regenerating its heat; she could feel it. She pinched one nipple and heard a gasp, then realized she had made it herself. Immediately she reached down to her labia, dripping wet, spread them apart with her fingers, and ran one finger rapidly up between them. The shudder was most satisfactory.

She allowed herself to pant like a dog now, as she ran her fingers in faster and faster laps that ended in a long screaming glowing exhalation which did not embarrass her in the least.

She opened her eyes. He was perched, in a crouch, on the end of the mattress, staring at her with alert, unreadable eyes. He had removed his clothing. All of his skin was that same funny dark red color. He was fully erect; the sight of his beautiful penis between his slightly spread knees was almost enough to get her fully recharged.

"Was that acceptable?" she asked him.

"You tell me," he said. "As you said, this is your dream."

"You made me do that."

"You don't usually know what you want, do you?" He dropped to his knees and uncoiled onto the bed beside her. He pressed the palm of his hand firmly against her pubic mound and wiggled it until she started to squirm from the sensation. Then he rolled and lay atop her without touching her, bracing his weight on his hands, looking like he was ready to do pushups.

"Stop," she said. She pulled in her knees, slid upwards from under him, and sat upright at the head of the bed.

"What?" He rolled back and sat crosslegged.

"I am not going to have sex with you. Dream or no dream. I've never had a dream this realistic before and I'm finding it very disturbing."

"Why?"

"Why? Well, fidelity, for one thing."

"Fidelity to what? Joe is sitting right now, masturbating in his vinyl recliner to the Playboy Channel. His bare skin squeaks against the vinyl as his flabby gray body rocks back and forth. His pores smell of beer."

"Stop."

"Eventually, out of breath, he will ejaculate weakly onto his hand and leg. Then he will slowly get up, turn off the TV, lumber into the bathroom and wipe it off on a towel, then go to bed. That's what sex is to Joe. How can you have any fidelity to that?"

She cradled her face in her hands. "Go," she said. "Disappear. Just go." She started to cry. When he didn't say anything, she looked up, trying to focus through her tears, and found she was sitting in the bathtub in lukewarm water, and her skin had gone all wrinkled.

She got out of the tub, dried off, picked up the phone - the one by the toilet - looked at the digits, and hung it up again without dialing. Then she stalked out to the bedroom, sniffling. She unmade the bed, got in, and used a vast number of tissues while thinking frantically. Eventually she looked at the clock and groaned.

She got up and rummaged in her suitcase. She tried to avoid using the sleeping pills except in emergencies; but this was close enough. She found the little bottle, buried under everything else, and took one. Then she lay back down. Whether because of the pill or her wishes, she succeeded; she had no more dreams that night.

- - -

At breakfast the next morning, she didn't have to remind herself to eat lightly for the benefit of the "upset stomach." She had very little appetite and a splitting headache - which the seminar was not likely to improve, she noted unhappily. She did take some consolation from the fact that all the partiers looked like they were in even worse shape than she was.

She managed to make it through the morning without nodding off, but to her dismay she kept thinking of her visitor - his odd skin and impossibly dark eyes. Oh, this is ridiculous! she thought. I might as well be in puberty again. But his voice kept coming back to her, irritatingly calm.

"You don't usually know what you want, do you?"

This made it very difficult to concentrate on the new sales plan.

The afternoon was worse. By then the speakers were well into repeating what they had already said in the morning half, and she was unable to stem the internal dialogue:

What he's trying to tell you is that you're not interested in Joe either.

It doesn't matter whether I'm interested in Joe. I'm married to him. Joe won't give me a divorce and I won't ask him for one.

If you won't ask him for one, how do you know whether or not he'll give it to you? Did you ever think that maybe it could be mutual?

... I don't want to think that.

Why not? It beats the other choices.

- - -

The second night's company "activities," Mary knew from experience, were doomed to be a repeat of the first - most of them involved free alcohol, which around one's superiors might as well be dynamite, in her opinion. Despite some comments aimed her way about "lack of spirit," she excused herself with a minimum of fuss and went back to her room. She bolted the door, took off her clothes, and sprawled on the bed. She spread her legs slightly and placed her hand between them. Warm, but no reaction like the night before. No, she thought, of course not. She began to rub and felt the clit swell in response. She ran her index finger along the insides of her labia and around and around until the liquid began to flow, and then she seized the clit almost viciously, and pushed it around in small orbits, faster, until she was almost on the threshold of a huge tremor ... and she stopped.

With a sigh, she pulled over the covers, closed her eyes, and tried to mentally minimize the tension she had created. It was hard to get to sleep, but eventually she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder.

"I thought that might work," she said, opening her eyes. "No clothes? Are we past that?"

"If you want me to put clothes on again, I will," he said. "But if you send out a call like that, this is what you get."

"I was thinking about my mythology class today," she replied. "Long time ago now, but I actually enjoyed that class; I remember it better than most. Incubi. Singular, incubus. You're one of those, right? Feed on sexual energy."

He bowed from the waist. "If you call me by name, I have to concede it."

"So if I sleep with you, do I go straight to hell?"

"No. You have me all wrong. I go visit women - and, around these parts, quite a few men - who suffer from sexual tension. I help them get rid of it. I'm a public service."

"You're treating the symptoms is what you're doing. Not that I'm not appreciative - although I'm a little curious why you popped up here and now -"

"There aren't many of us. This is the first time you've been out in my area. I'd have noticed you if you'd been here before. You're lit up. You've got to get rid of that or it'll kill you."

"But it'll just come back. That's what I mean. Sure, I'll walk around with a stupid grin on my face tomorrow, and then I'll just go back to my husband and it'll all come back to me."

"You have been thinking, haven't you? Those seminars must be pretty dull. So what's your point? I can't do anything about your long-term problem. It's not in the job description."

"Maybe you can, maybe you can't."

She explained what she wanted. He pondered the idea. There was a heated discussion. Then she woke up.

- - -

She had to drive all the way out to Provincetown to find a place open at eight p.m. which would sell her the things she needed.

She lay on the floor, spread-eagled. The floor was cold and the carpet itchy. It took her a long time to fall asleep. He was there immediately.

She reached out to him from the floor, and he crouched and clasped her hands. He knelt, knees between her legs, and began to knead her genitals and the insides of her thighs with the fingertips of both hands. He put the index finger of one hand inside her, holding it there, and teased her labia with the other hand. She tried to laugh and gasp simulaneously.

He changed position to lie atop her, entering her more gently than she would have guessed. His penis, in her hazy state, seemed red-hot. As he moved, she cluched him, lifting her hips involuntarily every time he pulled backward. Her fingers dug into his back. He didn't complain.

He waited for her. He waited until he knew she was on the edge, and then a few fierce, compact motions ... she felt the white light fill the spaces behind her eyes, and the waves in her body, which seemed to be dissolving, shaking itself apart.

- - -

In the morning, Carrie knocked on Mary's door to call her out for breakfast. She knocked again after breakfast. When Mary didn't show up for the closing session, she checked the parking lot for Mary's car. Finding it still there, she began the lengthy process of convincing the hotel staff to open a room without the occupant's permission.

Someone had pushed all the furniture into a single corner, exposing as much of the tan carpet as possible so that it could be covered with an elaborate design in red and white chalk. Thick lumps of sewing chalk, found in an ashtray over on a side table. Several candles had been propped up in florist's clay at strategic points in the design; they had burnt themselves into puddles. The hotel manager was livid; the chalk at least could be shampooed out. All of Mary's luggage, purse, belongings were there. Mary was not.

It took Joe a long time to answer the phone. He had been napping after a large lunch. He listened in silence - no, they didn't see any reason for him to come in just now, but they'd be in touch.

He hung up, waddled to the sofa and, after a moment of what passed for consideration, went back to sleep.

Copyright © February 1998. Do not distribute or reproduce.