Incubus

INCUBUS

     Brenda Jesserie was afraid to sleep. She couldn't afford to stay awake--her job, operating the controls of a hydraulic packing line, required all of her alertness; but she was afraid to sleep . . . and to dream.

     Her dreams had become increasingly more frightening, and even more violent. A vague, almost insubstantial, but definitely human male form, would recurringly grope into her bed and press itself upon her, sometimes more often than once in the same night.

     When the dreams, the nightmares, first began, just her waking was enough to dispel the impression, leaving her frightened, but alone and safe. As nights passed, however, the dream became more and more vivid, more real, and, somehow, harder to wake from. Even worse, and more terrifying to Brenda, was the realization that, more recently, her nightmare would no longer cease upon her awaking, but would, instead, continue for longer and longer periods of time after she was sure that she was awake, sometimes screaming, thrashing, and crying.

     On these more recent occasions, she was even convinced that she continued to feel the unseen weight of a man upon her, urgently forcing himself between her legs, and inside her, squeezing her breasts, and even kissing her mouth. The nightmare intruder's weight was becoming more real, more heavy and solid, on each successive occurrence. And on each occasion, the weight and the force pressing inexorably down on her, and within her, was becoming stronger, and increasingly more difficult to throw off.

     God! She was even beginning to think that she could hear the thing groaning in her ear as she fought against it!

     Brenda's only remaining vestige of sanity and salvation was the knowledge that her husband was returning home from sea soon. She had confidence that whatever the source of her bizarre sexual manifestation, the return of her husband would exorcise it. As it was, there was less than two weeks before his ship was due back in port, if she could only stay sane that much longer. . . .

     Then there was the night when she could not sleep.

     She lay in her bed, acutely aware of the hours dragging by, making her eyelids heavier and heavier, but not enough for her to close them. She heard the muffled drone of the central air conditioning, and the gentle patter of rain sporadically striking the bedroom window. Glancing groggily at the clock, she saw that in another couple of hours she'd have to get up anyway, and dreaded how the eight hours at her job would further wear her down without having slept, and how haggard she knew that she would look. Only a few of her friends knew of her recurring nightmare, and she didn't want even those few to know to what extent she was being affected.

     As she wondered whether or not she shouldn't just go ahead and get up, she was suddenly aware of a sort of cloud beginning to take shape beside her bed. Focusing on the rapidly coalescing vapor with silent horror, she watched as the form of a human appeared, and although she was able to see through it, the cloud consolidated to the point that it even developed facial features, features that Brenda found all too familiar.

     "Dale?" she gasped, recognizing a man she knew from work.

     Then, once again, the form was upon her, except, this time, either because of her increased fatigue, or its increased strength, she could not succeed in forcing it off of her, until, satisfied, it left her of its own accord.

*                           *                          *

     Dale "awoke" in his bed, and in his physical body, the instant that he had sexually sated himself with Brenda. He felt tired, drained, and, admittedly, a little guilty, but his sense of achievement overrode all of that. He knew that his constant barrage on his sexy, blond co-worker was wrong, probably "evil," but as he had spent so much time working near her, talking to her, even smelling her, causing his uncontrollable physical desire for her to swell up inside him like a choked geyser, he could not resist the temptation once he realized the possibility existed for his nocturnal visitations.

     Knowing that she was married, to a sailor on a ship home ported at the Mayport Naval Station, did nothing to dampen his craving for her, but only caused him envy for her husband. At work, however, despite his growing hunger for the cat-like, long-haired beauty, Dale was only playfully flirtatious with her, never revealing, he hoped, the depth of his true desire for her.

     Due to his extensive research of various arcane subjects, Dale recognized that, for the last several months, he had been on the threshold of having an "astral projection," or "out-of-body experience," and when he finally did succeed in "rolling out" of his sleeping, physical body, lovely Brenda quickly came to his mind as an irresistible destination. Aware that her husband was safely away at sea (as were those of several other, but less attractive women with whom he worked), Dale willed his astral body to Brenda's location, and after briefly gazing down at her tantalizing, sleeping shape from the foot of her bed, he plunged beneath her covers, between her legs, and, with his "astral" mouth and tongue, drank deeply of the sweet nectar between her soft, warm thighs.

     Brenda instantly sat up in her bed, and, startled, Dale immediately returned to his, but with the taste of her juices still tingling deliciously in his memory.

     After that first experience, he grew bolder and more determined. Whenever he succeeded in escaping his physical shell, he willed himself to manifest in Brenda's bedroom, and then into her bed. As he grew stronger, he found that he could even change her position as she slept, before he thrust himself eagerly inside her delectable body, and then, usually waking her in a frightened panic.

     Brenda would rock and writhe like a bucking horse, but Dale learned that by concentrating his will, and controlling his level of excitement, he could slake his lust for her for increasingly longer periods of time before finally being repulsed back into his distant body.

     During this time, although she never mentioned anything to him at work, Dale could see the indications of increasing stress and preoccupation, and, on more than one occasion, he had overheard her sighing to one of her close friends that, "the nightmare, or whatever 'it' was, had happened again." Still, he was careful to drop no hints or suggestions that he knew anything, but continued to maintain his usual, "innocently," flirtatious friendship. Nevertheless, his feverous desire for Brenda burned unabated, if not more so, but each passing day (and night) moved the calendar one day closer to the return of her husband.
     Then came the fateful night when he "visited" her, and she was still awake. Not only was he aware that she witnessed him coalescing near her now familiar bed, but he even heard her whimper his name before he swept down on her, and sexually possessed her once again. That night, despite her recognition of him, represented the sexual pinnacle of his quest for making love to her, because none of her struggles succeeded in breaking his clench of her beautiful, squirming body, or in repelling his insatiable mouth and tongue.

     But on that night, everything changed, forever.

*                           *                          *

     Soon after Brenda felt that "Dale" had ceased moving inside her, the weight of his body disappeared from on top of her. She forced herself up on her elbows and looked around the room, but saw no one. Levering herself out of bed, and grabbing a robe, she limped throughout the entire one-bedroom apartment, but she still found no one, or any sign of entry. Nevertheless, she knew who she had seen, and she knew what had happened to her, and she knew now that it wasn't just a sick, recurring nightmare. Only, she couldn't understand how.

     Brenda was now afraid that the scant number of days until her husband returned would still be far too many. She spent the rest of the night curled up in a chair in the living room, trembling, and when it was late enough for the office personnel to have come in to work, she called in sick.

     Then she returned to the chair, and, again, curled up and trembled for the remainder of the day.

*                           *                          *

     Dale couldn't help but notice that Brenda didn't come in that day, as he worked on the hydraulic packing line next to her, and, besides not being surprised, he was somewhat relieved. He now felt vulnerable, due to her recognition of him, and although temporarily sated of his ever mounting lust for the gorgeous blonde, he did not feel equal to the task of facing her.

     He knew, a thousand times over, how weak he was. He knew how quickly he caved in to temptation. Brenda was too sexy, too enticing for him to resist, and if she were not married or not faithful to her husband, he would have approached her directly. Nonetheless, compared to every other woman that Dale knew, Brenda was far and away the most alluring . . . and he knew that, although her husband's ship was soon returning, her husband's ship would leave again. . . .

*                           *                          *

     Brenda was out for the remainder of that week, which was only one more day. Her supervisor was sympathetic, knowing that she had been under some vague and undiscussed mental strain for the past several weeks. Her loyal friends, knowing of the nightmares, declined to shed any light on her situation, and Dale continued to remain mutely concerned, but distant. He was not one of Brenda's "inner circle," although still considered a "friend," but he avoided directing any attention to himself by showing too much conspicuous alarm.

     Dale merely murmured the general concern about her welfare, and echoed the general expressions of missing her presence at work . . . and that part was definitely true--he missed watching her from behind as she walked, the round, rolling shift of her supple, squeezable ass surging up and down with each feline stride. He missed the heave of her firm, melon-sized breasts as she breathed each breath he watched her take, and the mischievous glint in her crystal blue eyes as he made one of his harmless, yet sincere, flirtations. And he missed her musky, cat-like scent when he worked on the hydraulic packing line near her.

     God, yes, he missed Brenda, but he never let anyone know how much, and no one could ever guess . . . except, now, Brenda herself.

*                           *                          *

     She came back to work the following Monday. The last few nights had been uneventful, but she looked worn, wan, and weak. Her friends and acquaintances gasped at how frail she appeared, and her supervisor even asked if she felt well enough to return to work, but Brenda felt that she had no choice--no work, no pay, etc. . . . But to Dale, although he still felt a little sheepish, his unquenchable black heart still soared and palpitated at the sight of her. Despite her pallid, sickly appearance, she still moved like a sleek, sexy cat, and regardless of her dark, sunken eyes, she still turned him on like a horny light switch. . . .

     And she still shunned him like the plague. She wouldn't work any closer to him than she had to, she wouldn't walk near him, she avoided looking at him, and she wouldn't even continue a conversation near him, her quivering voice choking off into total silence if he would happen to pass nearby.

     'Oh,' Dale thought, 'she knows, all right. But what could she possibly do? Who could she tell? Who would believe her?'

     So, knowing that her beloved "hubby" was almost home, Dale relaxed and accepted his new status of being in Brenda's disfavor, but, at the same time, he began a new game with the seductive nymph: he began letting her know that he didn't care that she knew, because he knew she could do nothing!

 *                           *                          *

     On two other nights, since her return to work, he was able to "visit" her as she slept. Dale was hesitant to push her too far, now that she had recognized him, and with her husband so close to his return, but he still longed for her, was practically obsessed with her, and, for some perverse reason, he even wanted Brenda to know it. Both times, he merely contented himself with kissing and tonguing her open mouth, while he gently squeezed and massaged her shapely butt and soft breasts, even exciting the tips of her nipples to hardness. And, both times, as she began to moan and gradually awake, Dale reluctantly departed.

*                           *                          *

    Lambert's, (Brenda's husband), return was as joyous as the arrival of all the other husbands on board the U.S.S. Meade. Due to its proximity to the Mayport Naval Station, Jacksonville, Florida was, of course, a "navy town," with navy wives spread out all over the vast, sprawling, confusing metropolis. The wives whose husbands were due in that day were grudgingly, but with tight, amiable smiles, allowed to leave work early to meet the ship, and didn't even have to come back to work until the next day.

     Dale wondered, of course, what, if any, tales Brenda would tell her loving spouse, and he had even begun practicing making blank stares if he was suddenly confronted by some thundering hulk of a husband who couldn't possibly know what he was raving about.

     And, as it happened, due to his friendship with other wives whose husbands were on the same ship, Dale even knew the date that the Meade was next due to leave Mayport. The following day, as all the navy wives strutted back into the plant, bright-eyed, smug, and sassy from their reunions (Brenda included), Dale had made sure that every calendar the blond minx encountered had the date of the U.S.S Meade's departure circled in a bold, red heart-shape. Dale didn't see her when she noticed it, but he knew, later, that she had, because when all the other Navy wives were still cracking ribald jokes, Brenda had already begun to fade back into the pale, ashen shell of her recent, former self. He even thought he saw her cry.

*                           *                          *

     The fist knocking on Dale's front door seemed less than friendly. He was already up, although it was a weekend, but dressed only in a bathrobe. Still, he was loath to answer the door as it was his practice to dwell as inconspicuously as possible, and unexpected visitors always boded ill, especially the kind of visitor represented by the large, glowering stranger Dale saw through his peephole.

     "Yes?" Dale finally asked, through a thin crack between the door and frame.

     "I'm Lambert Jesserie," the stranger's voice boomed, "and I want to talk to you!"

     "Do I know you?"

     "No, but you know my wife, Brenda Jesserie. You work with her."

     "Just a minute," Dale sighed. "Let me get dressed."

     As if in slow motion, but while seeking suspended animation, Dale crept through the process of putting on clothes. As Brenda had, on occasion, given him a ride home from work, she knew where he lived, and, of course, he had half-humorously, and unsuccessfully, tried to lure her upstairs and into his bed on each of those occasions. Now her huge, burly husband stood towering outside his door.

     "Hello," Dale murmured resignedly, as he reluctantly opened the door, and stood aside.

     "Yeah," Lambert Jesserie responded, shouldering his way into the living room, his brusque advance only momentarily halted by seeing the bizarre collection of occult and mystical objects that decorated Dale's apartment.

     "So, is there something I can do for you?"

     "Yes," Lambert said, seeming to swell even larger, "you can leave my wife alone."

     "Hey, your wife and I work together, but I don't bother her!"

     "It's not when she's at work. Brenda says you come at her in her sleep, somehow. She says she knows it's you because she can see you."

     "That's not possible!" Dale stammered. "I don't even know where she lives--"

     "Well, that's what Brenda says, and I believe her. What I'm saying is: If 'it,' whatever it is, ever happens again, I'm going to come back here and pound the crud out of you! Got it?'

     "Sure, but I still don't know what you're talking about."

     "Well, I think you do," Lambert growled, glancing darkly at the numerous items of witchcraft and wizardry that surrounded him. "Remember, I may not be able to prove that you've been sexually assaulting Brenda in her sleep, but she's sure, and that's all that matters to me!"

     With that, the massive form moved back to the door, glared once more at Dale, and left, leaving the door open, contemptuously, behind him.

     Dale closed and relocked the door, and with trembling hands, despite it being only late in the morning, poured a stiff scotch and water. Then he sat down heavily and waited for the soothing elixir to take effect.

*                           *                          *

     "Did you talk to him?" Brenda asked.

     "Yeah," Lambert replied wearily. "I only had to check the mailboxes to find which apartment was his. And, I owe you a big apology."

     "About what?"

     "Well, I kind of thought the whole idea was nutty at first. You know, people being able to fly around without their bodies, and sneak into women's beds, and all that. But, I'm telling you, after seeing the inside of that guy's apartment, it almost gave me the creeps. I mean, it makes me think that maybe what's been happening to you isn't so far-fetched after all, that maybe this guy can do weird stuff like that."

     "So you don't think I'm crazy, after all?"

     "Not anymore."

     "Thank God," Brenda gushed, and threw herself into Lambert's arms. "I was so afraid that I was losing my mind."

*                           *                          *

     As the weeks passed, each day growing closer to the Meade's return to the hard, gray sea, the more subtly forward and obvious, in many tiny, but significant ways, did Dale's attention to Brenda become. The more often, if their eyes briefly met, would he languidly loll his tongue out of his mouth, or, if she might accidentally glance at his face, would she find his eyes lasciviously focused on the crotch of her jeans.

     Even more taunting, Dale later began taking opportunities to creep up behind her, at her position on the packing line, and loudly inhale her fragrant, sweet aroma, causing her to whirl around in alarm. Then he would raise his hands in resignation and back away, smirking evilly at her . . . bidding his time, they both knew, until her husband was gone again; and again, alone in her sleep, she would be his.

*                           *                          *

     Brenda's husband requested humanitarian leave time on shore, for personal reasons, but his command refused. His marriage problems were not as important as his shipboard duties, so, with their hearts breaking, Lambert and Brenda were again forced to separate.

     "I'll be all right," Brenda said, on the pier.

     "You'd better be," Lambert vowed, "or I'll be a murderer."

     "Don't worry. I'll keep applying for other jobs, and soon I'll be away from there."

     "I hope so, honey. Take care, and don't turn your back to that bastard."

     "Don't worry," she whimpered, again. "I won't."

*                           *                          *

     The day the U.S.S. Meade left port, the wives of the sailors came in to the plant late, Brenda among them. She couldn't help but notice Dale's delight at her return, as he would repeatedly smack his lips and wriggle his eyebrows at her when he knew that only she could see him. Repulsed and disgusted, she could only look away.

     Working near Dale on the packing line, as she operated the controls that moved the empty cartons down the rollers as he filled them at his station, leering at her at every opportunity, Brenda felt closer and closer to some kind of breakdown.

     It was no accident, then, although she claimed that it was, that suddenly caused the roller clamps to close over Dale's outstretched body, changing his, previous, perpetual smirk into an expression of agony and surprise. It was no accident, although Brenda swore that she had only backed into the clamping button by mistake, that caused Dale's body to be pinched between the hydraulic clamps until blood squirted from his screaming mouth and each of his twitching extremities. It was no accident, and Brenda felt no guilt . . . only, at last, release.

     The plant closed early that day, soon after the paramedics wheeled Dale's crushed, lifeless body out on a bloody, covered gurney. Police detectives questioned Brenda intensively, but found no reason to doubt her statement. They let her go home that afternoon.

     Sighing with relief, she drove the few blocks between the plant and her home, and letting herself inside the apartment, she immediately sensed that something was wrong. There were no signs of break in, and nothing appeared to be missing, but she sensed that someone had been there. She cautiously crossed through the living room and into the kitchen, and although nothing was disturbed, it still did not dispel her acute unease.

     Looking into the bedroom, she recoiled in horror. The bedclothes was rising and writhing on their own, churning and twisting in an obscene parody of the bed being occupied--except no one was there!

     Staggering back against the wall, Brenda stared aghast and dumbfounded at the gyrating sheets and covers, and, although she would never be sure, she could have sworn that she heard Dale's vile voice moan:

     "Come to bed, baby. I'm ready for you, forever. . . ."

THE END