Summoning (a smutty short)

Thank you to Rehve for her generous donation. Lucian is her rp character, I've just written him here.

This story contains elements of supernatural control and manipulation, and so touches up against the gray area between consensual and not (though both parties would have consented even without that manipulation there). There is also fight-fucking going on. I hope that covers all possible triggers.

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It’s not a difficult thing to summon a demon. I’ve read all manner of ritual and mumbo jumbo that would suggest otherwise. Some books require blood sacrifices under certain phases of the moon. Once a man in a tiny shop in Nawlins told me I had to slaughter my prized rooster with a bone knife over dishes of ground corn that had been laid out in offering three days prior. The store stank more of marijuana than the pungent incense that smoldered in every corner. I remarked that I had no rooster, and the man in the tiny shop told me it was for the best.

I never tried the blood sacrifice approach. It’s not that I’m squeamish, it’s just that I wouldn’t be able to explain the mess if I were caught. I prefer to be careful. I prefer to be tidy. I’m reasonably certain that this is a matter of causation, not correlation.

I did try other things. I trekked into the mountains of Southern California on the night of the new moon. I made a circle of dried manzanita branches, and I placed offerings of nettle and foxglove within. I burned acacia and sage at the designated points outside of the circle, and I stood between the smoking bowls while chanting the requisite lines. The reward for my trouble was little more than a tick near the outside of my elbow and socks full of burrs.

I tried pentagrams in circles, chants that satanists assured me would work, and discovered just as little. An internet forum suggested reversing the “banishment of troubled spirits” ritual as performed in Northwestern China, but that was just as worthless an effort. Some resources cite chalk, others charcoal, and a few even require trails of various minerals or pigments be laid just so.

In reality, anything that will make a mark will work. I suspect that some materials help to supplement a weakness on the part of the summoner. For instance, if one were particularly weak-willed, one would need blood, offerings, and the discipline of elaborate symbols to hone one’s desire.

Wanting itself is not enough. Blood itself is not enough. There is no incantation required, though the summoning enclosure must be precisely drawn. I would illustrate it here, but there are already enough demons loose in this world. I’ve gone so far as to burn the battered book that provided me the answer, and perhaps I will share its secrets with someone one day. It is, however, far more likely that those secrets will die with me.

In any case, my preferred tool is chalk. The same slender, yellow-white stems of chalk that are sold inexpensively to professors in supply stores. It is easy to sweep away, and stows well within the pocket. Unassuming chalk is a convenient weapon, without appearing to be a weapon at all.
The first demon I summoned was small. It was scarcely a demon at all in appearance so much as it was a lump of clay with the texture of curdled milk and a single, pale pink eye that rolled about within a bulging, inflamed socket. It tested the bounds of its enclosure by rolling over itself, and spoke no words when addressed. The smell of the thing was so pungent that it set my eyes to watering, my nose to running, and my stomach to churning within seconds. I could not banish the accursed creature fast enough.

Still, puerile though it was, I was filled with a sense of exultation. No matter what that thing had been, I had summoned it. It had come to my call. It had been detained by my will. For those split seconds that it had existed in this world, it had been a supernatural extension of myself.

The smell lingered in the kitchen, and I found myself compelled to move in the days that followed. I lost my cleaning deposit, which was irksome, but not enough to stay my ventures. The pock-faced slob who rented the apartment had threatened to report me for being a terrorist, saying that the smell had to come from building explosives. In a moment of profound humanity, I told him where he could stick his thousand dollars.

Lesson learned, I moved to a small house with a basement. It was further than I cared to commute, but still near enough as not to be unbearable. The basement was worth every extra minute in traffic. The tiny windows set just above ground level were easy enough to paper. There was a drain set in the floor in case the washer should flood. Furthermore, the floor itself was cement slab, which is most ideal for chalk.

In time, and under the guidance of my tattered old book, I grew more and more bold with my experiments. I was soon summoning larger, and more diverse creatures. Though sometimes they were closer in appearance to plants, the demons were often things that resembled animals without being anything like an animal at all. Only once in those early days did I summon anything remote humanoid. It was hideous, and foul, and listening to the noises that rolled past its blackened tongue, jagged teeth, and slathering lips caused my ears to ring. I sent it away as fast as I could manage, but my head ached so badly that I was forced to take the following three days off work.

I resolved, after that, to limit my summons to smaller and less consequential creatures. This required more information, but my trusted guidebook was less than forthcoming as to its origins, and was limited in its scope. Other sources had proven ineffective and less than knowledgeable. Still, I was determined to learn what I could, and so set about reading ruminations on religious mythos as pertain to so-called “Western” civilizations. This is not to say that other histories would have been any less valid, but I opted to commence my research in a more familiar tradition.

In doing this, I came across a dissertation on the modern-day incubus as written in the year 1893. “The incubus,” it read, “is a misshapen creature no larger than a small dog. It prays upon the souls of young women by creeping into their rooms at night and haunting their dreams with all manner of sexual depravity. It may or may not actually copulate with its slumbering victim.”

I could not help but wonder if this was a story contrived by an oppressive masculine society to preserve the “sanctity and purity” of its ideologically chaste women by explaining away the female equivalent of “nocturnal emissions.” Still, as it was a woman I meant first and foremost to send from this world and into the next, I felt that it was worthy of an attempt. The incubus was a lesser demon, but reportedly possessed moderate intelligence. It was also of a size I might easily subdue, a fact which weighed greatly in its favor so far as I was concerned. If I was successful, I presumed I might train it as one would a dog.

I set about summoning my incubus with my customary determination to succeed. My chalk left clean lines on the cement, and my curves were all perfectly delineated. My intent was clear, my guidance precise. Summoning had become as rote to me as writing the alphabet.

It came to pass that I was successful, but not in the way that I had hoped. Nor was M. Sigund particularly accurate in his portrayal of the incubus demon (even at that period of human history, I have since been informed). The reality was a far, far cry from Fuseli’s vision to say the least. 

What arrived within the confines of the circle was far larger than the anticipated small dog size, though it was dog-like. It looked to be some awful cross between dog and pony. Monstrous in size, with wicked claws, sharp, gleaming teeth, and a whip of a tail. I am aware that it had eyes, though in the horrific instant for which the thing was there, I did not, and indeed could not, bring myself to meet them. A fact for which I remain grateful to this very day. Even the memory causes my mouth to run dry.

That thing, that horrific nightmare of a creature, vanished from my circle and was supplanted with another figure so quickly, and so smoothly, that I was made to question if it had even occurred at all. Just as one might question the flickering of a candle in an otherwise still room. But it had been there, and my subsequent reeling only grew more pronounced as I stared not at some grotesque monstrosity, but instead at a man.

Imagine my surprise at this, if you can. Years of research, trials, and successes. Dozens of demons had been called forth and subsequently banished by my hand, and never had one manifested itself as a person. And, while there was something Otherly about him, I might well have passed him on the street as I would have any other man formed of mortal flesh. He was inconspicuous in all of the ways that mattered.

The demon man was, I noted, a decidedly handsome creature. He was youthful in appearance, no more than his mid twenties, and dressed in the same convention as the students in my classes. His hair was black, his skin a peachy pink, and his eyes a rich, woodsy brown— but then they were red. Dark, bloody red. How had I not noticed it before? How had I thought him so mundane?

His manner of speech, however, left much to be desired. Not that I sound nearly so eloquent as I would care to when I am speaking, but I doubt that his inner monologue was much more sophisticated than a See Spot Run book.

“Well,” the man — no, thing — said with a bored shift of its regard upon my person. “What the fuck do we have here?”

He was not hostile in demeanor, nor did he seem angered at having been called forth. Instead he appeared to be singularly unimpressed. It took me a moment to gather my composure enough to speak.

“I have summoned you forth to do my bidding, incubus, demon,” I declared with neither quaver nor flinch.

“Yeah?” The demon questioned. “Guess that makes you a goddamn idiot then. What’s your name?”

It is a testament to my good upbringing, though not to my common sense, that I replied. “Badar Nnamani.” I gave pause, determined to remain in control of the situation, and then presented my own question in turn. “What is your name?”

The man gave a thoughtful hum. He turned within the boundaries of my chalk circle, the toes of his Converse shoes just shy of brushing the boundary, and slipped his hands casually into his pockets.

“You can call me Lucian.”

I was again surprised. But then, it likely had a name I could neither understand, nor pronounce.

“Very well, Lucian.” I saw no reason to be impolite just because I was dealing with hellspawn. “I have called you here so you might drive one Isabelle Santini to an early grave. Preferably while she sleeps. It is necessary that there appears to be nothing unnatural about her demise.”

“Why? She cut you off or somethin’?” Lucian asked the wall, not even bothering to face me as he spoke. “Wait, no. She stole your fucking grey pupon, yeah?”

“Something like that,” I replied.

I knew that it was in my best interests to show little emotion to this creature, to give way few thoughts and no secrets. Still, it was more difficult to school my expression than I’d anticipated. I could taste victory already.

“All right, then,” Lucian replied, punctuating his bored agreement with a smirk.

“Well get to it,” I commanded as I forced the demon away.

That, then, was it. I had done it. I had summoned a proper demon. One powerful enough to be of use, but not so powerful that I couldn’t control it. Whether or not it would do as I asked remained to be seen. That fact paled beside how accomplished I felt at the moment.

A week later, that sense of accomplishment had faded. The woman was not dead. But then the chancellor pulled me aside to inform me that the department dean had passed in her sleep the night before, that her housekeeper had phoned the offices early that morning.

My heart swelled, my pulse quickened, and I had to fight not to smile at the man, not to sing to the heavens. Ding, dong, the bitch was dead. And I had done it! Unassuming me, armed with little more than a piece of yellow chalk.

I feigned astonishment. I forced myself to be somber, even distraught where others might see me. What a tragedy, I agreed when appropriate. And she was so young, I sympathized over hours-old coffee in the teachers’ lounge.

I decided to celebrate in private. I picked up a fine steak from the butcher that I passed during my too-long commute. A fine bottle of red was procured from the boutique alcohol shop neighboring the butcher’s, and a beautiful bunch of fine green asparagus from the stand out front.

I aired the wine, blanched the asparagus, and cooked the steak to a perfect medium rare. I had just set myself down and made the first cut when the chime of the doorbell interrupted the sweet strains of Vissi d’arte. My mood was entirely too good to be displeased at the interruption. Warm from the wine I’d sipped while preparing dinner, I crossed the room to haul open the door. By this point, my cheeks were aching from smiling, but that smile grew stiff when I came face to face with the gleam of a worn detective’s badge in a cheap leather case.

The good officers in their ill-fitting polyester suits did not want to take up too much of my time. They did so anyway. Their questions were mundane and fruitless. Of course I’d known Ms. Santini. We’d worked together for years. No, I didn’t know why she’d had my card on the stand by her bed. No, I had received no calls from here the night before. No, I had not had relations with the woman in question for well over a year. Yes, I was at home by myself during the period in question, as I most often am.

And then they were gone. My food was cold, and my soaring elation had been replaced by the steadily increasing weight of dread. I ate half of my steak, none of my vegetables, and then packed the leftovers away into the fridge. I made a meal of my wine instead, as it was already opened, and sat in the living room to listen to the rest of my opera in peace.

The music had just died away when the doorbell chimed again. It was unreasonably late for visitors, and I had only managed to drink two glasses of wine. The visit from the police had left my nerves on edge despite my confidence, and the wine was not truly helping to ease them.

To say that I was surprised when I opened the door for my second unexpected arrival of the evening would be an understatement. I had expected it to be the police again, there to harass me more for some fictitious crime. Or perhaps they had received the innocuous coroner’s report and come to apologize to me in person. It was not the detectives with their bored faces and rote questions. Instead it was Lucian. The very same demon I had summoned into my basement.

My heart lept into my throat, crashed down again as his hand found the panel of my door, and I turned through the slowing of time. I fled. Without shame. Without hesitation. I ran fast as I could through the interior of my home, which had turned foreign to me in those instants, as though it were a stranger’s house and not mine at all.

He was after me. I could hear his steps behind mine. His stride was long and powerful, but I had moved before he had. I had moved with determination. The handle of my steak knife was cool in my hand, and I turned to swing it in a wide arch as he closed. The serrated blade caught his sleeve, tearing through the tissue-thin fabric, and bit deep into his arm. It left a lurid red streak that was swiftly trickling into the gray of his sleeve.

The demon, Lucian, smiled. His eyes gleamed briefly like a cat’s. “That the best you can do?”

Panicked, I went at him again. This time I could see him. This time I could lash out with purpose. I aimed the blade for his throat, but he raised his arm faster than I could track. The blade tore his sleeve and sank past his skin, past his fat. I wrenched the knife back after it struck the resistance of muscle, and a sleek streak of blood flew away from the blade.

Lucian’s eyes lidded, and he gave a soft, low groan. A pleasured groan. A pleasing groan. My heart squeezed tight in my chest, then sped again as my pulse sank. I could feel my cock swell along my pant leg, and I found myself leaning nearer. I wanted to hear that again.

The knife caught Lucian’s side next. The sharp point sunk inward with alarming ease. It pierced the surface, and then sawed deep past that initial resistance. Punctured through to the tender insides. Lucian groaned again, and I was lost.

I abandoned the knife in Lucian’s belly. The wooden handle gleamed, and blood came seeping out around where the blade was buried. The demon was breathing hard, but so was I. I snatched his hat away with one hand, and caught his hair in the other fist. I twisted, and I pulled, and I remember how satisfying it was to haul his head to the side and sink my teeth hard into his cheek.

Please understand, I am not a violent man. Nor can I claim that I was possessed. Perhaps I was… inspired, for lack of a better word. Whatever the provocation, my actions felt right at the time. They felt perfectly my own, and perfectly fitting.

Lucian was laughing. It was an amused sort of laughter, and it drove a spike of fury through the heat that had set upon me. I grabbed the knife and wrenched it free. A modest font of blood came flowing in its wake. The knife clattered to the laminate floor. My fingers found the wound, dug against it, and Lucian’s laughter stopped.

“Is that it?” The demon’s tone was incredulous, though strained. “Is that all you’ve got, fucker? My little sister does better than that.”

Juvenile taunts. But this was no boy. No man. True it was that he looked young, and true it was that he looked human, but I knew the better of it.

His hand caught me hard against the cheek. It was no slap, no gentle rebuke. It was a punch, full, and flowering with a throb. An ache. My eye squinted up. My jaw panged with sympathy.

The next thing I knew, I was roaring. We hit the floor in a tumble, a tangle of grappling arms and tangling legs. Lucian was laughing, and then groaning, and then laughing again. My knuckles ached. My hand was throbbing. His nose had popped, and there was blood everywhere. On the floor. On my fingers. On my face and shirt from where we had rolled.

A chair clattered off to the side. It was difficult to know which way was up, which was down. But then I had him beneath me, and his cock throbbed against mine, and he moaned again. I wanted him. I needed him. I would have him, even if he were inexplicably walking about outside of my circle.
I prefer chalk, but it was the knife I grabbed from the floor. The knife I held at his throat, the tip digging just beneath the jaw. He set his tongue against the roof of his mouth and purred at me. Purred at me!

I could not pull apart my fly fast enough. His fingers were there, helping. Hot and soft when they dipped in, past the parting of my boxers, and gave a squeeze to my engorged cock. I bit him again, on the jaw that time, and then once more on the cheek. The tip of the knife brought about the slow welling of a vivid drop of blood. I was admittedly careless in my haste, but it only seemed to incite him further.

He stroked my cock as he pulled it free, and then it was I who was groaning. I ground against the heat of his palm and flung the knife aside. I met his mouth with mine, crushed lip to lip, and speared at him with my tongue. It was the most heated travesty of a kiss that I had ever given anyone, but he yielded to it. His mouth parted, and the ire of my actions eased. He was warm, and suckling, and his body was hard against my own. The kiss broke, joined, and broke again.

But then all at once we were moving. Another chair toppled with a loud clatter of wood. He was atop me, pulling at my trousers. The next moment I was atop him and pulling at his. My head ached for where his fingers had twisted through my hair earlier. My joints were louder in their complaint. His fist caught my shoulder, and I went reeling, forced back in an undignified sprawl that put me have onto the living room carpet.

The impact of my head left me dazed, and I watched as he stood with his feet planted on either side of my thighs. His jeans were pulled wide, and he’d lost one shoe. He squeezed at his cock, which was slender in the way that he was slender, long in the way that he was long, though clearly hard, and eager, and glistening just so at the tip. The sight had me groaning. I kicked my trousers clear of my ankles. I wanted to worship him. I wanted to hurt him.

“You’re a goddamn pushover is what you are, Badar,” Lucian taunted.

“How are you here?” I had to ask it. “Has someone sent you against me?” I pushed myself up with a drag of palm along the carpet.

“Nope,” Lucian replied, half husky growl. He was grinning. A wide, manic grin. “Came all on my lonesome. Bet you didn’t take that into account earlier, did you, dumbshit?”

My hands slid up his jeans, nails catching at the seams on the outsides of his legs, and I pulled him nearer. Made him sway that I might wrap my mouth about the perfect, glistening head of his cock. I hummed, my tongue passing over the slit, and the both of us agreed to accept this as an answer.

Lucian gave up the hold on his cock, and instead slid his fingers through my hair. He tugged at it, though more gently than before, and his warm touch grazed my ear as I sank steadily down in a warm, wet trail along his shaft. It seemed to me that his cock was the most perfect flesh I had ever set to the belly of my tongue, and the taste of him was so intense, so supremely satisfying that I wanted nothing more than to stay on my knees in worship of him for the rest of my days.

Until he laughed.

My hands swept up as I drew back. I sucked hard, moving slowly, hiding my intent even as I peeled down the jeans that clung to his legs like a second skin. He accommodated me, as I was complacent at that point. His hips rolled forward as I swept down again, swallowing, and he gave a quiet grunt of approval. His weight went one way for the removal of shoe and pant leg, and the other for the removal of pant leg alone. I had him by the balls, and I was petting, and he was groaning. Groaning such a delightful sound.

I had him off guard again, and I took my opportunity. My mouth parted on the next upstroke, and I caught the inside of one of his pale knee to haul it forward, and then aside. He went toppling with a dismayed cry, and landed in a heap on the rug.

I was on him in an instant, though I was tired, and sore, and I had never worked so hard in my life as I had that evening. It seemed an easier thing to get his hands behind his back than it should have been, too easy to hold his wrists in the tight, bruising grip of one of my own hands. I spat into the other, and smeared the fluid from the head of my cock down along its length. It wouldn’t last, I knew, but I didn’t care to go and find proper lubrication just then. And the way he struggled, with his hips swaying one way, then the other.. It seemed more enticement than fight. He was pink, and folded, and perfect.

The weight and feel of him in my mouth was nothing -nothing- compared to the satisfaction of pressing my cock into his ass. The muscle had just the right amount of resistance, just the right amount of give. Once it had stretched wide enough to snap tight past the flare of my cockhead, I thrust rudely, abruptly deep. I worked with more force than I’d ever dared before. I came to a jarring stop, and the world went briefly black. I could see nothing, only feel his ass working about me, fell the tight encasement of pulsing flesh. My breath was fire, my heart a drum, and he was groaning, and purring, and leaning back into me.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough,” the demon sighed, as though I’d just wooed him with a sonnet.

Indeed it had. I said nothing, but instead released his hand to grab him hard at the hips, my thumbs digging into the muscles at the outside of his ass. I bucked again, and again, uncaring of the fact that the way had stopped being easy for my spittle. The muscle eased as I went, warmed. The friction was nearly unpleasant, but not unbearable. I drove into him repeatedly with grunts of effort and lewd squelches, smacks of skin and swinging balls underscored by the sounds of his cries. His moans. His praise.

Never before had I been inspired to fight. Never before had I been inspired to fuck so hard. I could not have been at it for very long given my stamina, as I was sweaty, and winded, and my hips began to twinge, my knees as well. I became aware as I rode, and fucked, and groaned my own praise in reply, that he had hold of himself. That he was squeezing, and stroking, and tugging at the length of his own cock with a vigor that I could not hope to match. But I tried. Oh, I tried.

That orgasm, that climax, was the most magnificent I had felt in my forty-three years of life. The tension that had built through my gut, the exhaustion that had begun to creep through my limbs, all pulled tight, unbearably so, and then released in one warm, explosive burst that shot up through my loins, along my spine, and radiated outward. Out to leave me forgetting what it was to breathe, or to see. It came over me in waves of red, and of black. For one brief, exquisite instant, I was nothing but pleasure.

The next I was me again. Still breathing. Still rocking. I was distantly aware of the ache of my balls, the sensitive protest that had begun in my cock, the fact that his ass was still rippling and clenching in a tight, straining spasm about the length of me. I was not inclined to stop, though. Not when it felt so good to move. Not until the treasure came too near to pain, and the protest of my cramping ass cheek had me slowing. Slowing. Stopping.

I pulled out slowly, chest heaving with the force of my panting. There was blood on my carpet from his wounds. Blood and sweat on my hands. The air was thick with the smell of sex. I had never felt more alive. I landed heavily on the floor beside Lucian, and turned my head to take him in.

The demon had not moved much. His weight had shifted back toward his heels, and his head had come to rest against his forearm. I could see a splatter of cum in the shadow cast by his belly. His hair was a mess, his shirt a ruin. Vivid red eyes were narrowed at me above a wide, lazy grin. Slowly, as if in a dream, he leaned near and rasped his teeth across my cheek.

“Not bad, fucker,” he rumbled into my ear. “You know, for a human.”

And then he was gone. Gone, and the air was cooling. Gone, and my little house was a mess. Gone, and I felt exquisite.