Tag Archives: succubus

succubae

06 Sunday Sep 2020

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on succubae

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Why do it alone? Eyes wide in the dark
at your curled shape sharing this bed. Hell spawn,

they claimed, with hints of goat legs, Lilith’s mark,
sick dreads. You’re Rastafari’s Babylon

in ways I can’t. What do succubae dream
of when they dream? I’m uncouth, so perhaps

how my love bites woo’d you? How the obscene
salt in my skin called you mine? What mishaps

drove us together? We dream of claiming;
my scent spilled inside you, every brutal

kiss, each time we say mine. Try and seduce
a sex demon. It’s not an easy thing …

even with dreads. You were unlovable,
you claimed. I was just a sex-starved recluse.

slurred

12 Monday Nov 2018

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on slurred

Tags

, , , , , ,

Strange how a nerve can ruin one’s sex drive.
For a week I lay on my back, tendons

frozen, muscles in knots, pinched nerve alive,
burning. All those stories of sex demons

who feed on the cum of the sick are bunk.
I slid out of my head in pain. Nothing

happened. No one appeared in my punch-drunk
fevers. For a week I lay there: crying,

praying the pain away. As if. It’s why,
at that moment, if I could have bartered

my soul away to end all this I would’ve.
It’s a sad day when even succubi

pass you by. My tongue rot. My vision slurred.
My mind forlorn over love … sublime love.

Note:
I’m on day 14 of dealing with a pinched nerve on the left side of my back. Hot and cold compresses, messages and the like do nothing. The pain has been slowly making its way up my neck, across my shoulder and down into my biceps. There is no way to get comfortable, no way of easing what is constant and unchanging, no escape. As the poem puts it, I am slowly sliding out of my head but not in any dandy shamanic-like manner. All I have is that ill-stomach feeling, like when I broke my arm and could do nothing but stare ahead in horror.

witch-mark

18 Thursday Jul 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on witch-mark

Tags

, , , , , , ,

 

Bluntless succubus. A joyless rolled spliff
between two blue lips. The devil’s nipple,
misfit clit, nuzzles my chin with a whiff
of a witch-mark; which marks where I’ve been, dulls
pillow talk, slows all us down. Going down
on you bigmouth I get my full mouth throttled
to the ground. Shagged but not fagged; a putdown
that can only make sense in past-tense. Fraggled,
as in rock and squirt and splashdown. Your skirt
around your hips, your lips blue and agog
as you gag me. Did I mention that there’s
something in my throat? The pervert’s effort
is worth it. The sky is dull without smog.
Lust is nothing more than nightmares and prayers.

aumakua

08 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on aumakua

Tags

, , , , ,

Aumakua: a succubus
from the Sandwich Islands,
South Pacific.

Her hair was long, at least by our dreamland
standards. She had wrapped the tail ends around
her toes, so that when she walked she left the sand
patterned, like the wind in the dunes. The sound
of her song could be heard up and down
the beach. In the graves of Chief Roi Mata
and his 20 wives the old man would frown
at all the smutty figures she would draw
in the sand with a stick. Missionaries
called her a devil as she drank the rain
gushing out from her own lap. Her menses,
it was said, could wake the dead, heal that pain.
In our dreamland she waits, a succubus
under a lotus tree, pleasure’s goddess.

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

08 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the statue of a crimsoned succubus

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

In a large room of an artist’s studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.

The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.

The succubus, rudely cut from lecher’s wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman’s own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.

The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus’ own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist’s red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.

Once in a while the woman would say the boy’s name, “Shijo;” but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.

From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.

In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her.

The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.

After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.

The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.

Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage.

Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.

The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue’s eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.

By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari’s psychedelic robe.

For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.

It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood’s ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn’t that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.

Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.

Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.

Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.

It was a book filled with drawings — strange, horrible, erotic artwork — as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.

Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.

All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man’s fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called “Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love”. She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool’s seat.

The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as “Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” a prime example of the “aesthetic of the grotesque” in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle “kun’niringusu,” as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.

“I’m going to cum–”

The woman’s eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman’s wife felt; she’d fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.

“O! O! O!”

She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer — harder — closer — faster — clo–

With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm … faded away.

Again the bell sounded.

She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.

The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated — was it really worth it? — then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.

A woman stood waiting for her.

She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor’s inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place.

“You cannot want me,” the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. “And there is no one else here. Sayonara.”

“If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko,” the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, “then I certainly do want you.”

“Want me?” The sculptress opened the door a little wider. “I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you.”

“Perhaps,” the other answered. “But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki.”

“Leiko of Nagasaki!” repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.

“Will you follow me, my lady?” she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.

The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.

Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.

“You must wait until the supper is prepared,” she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.

The material of Leiko’s semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.

Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko’s steady gaze.

“You have heard of me?” she said suddenly.

“Yes,” was the instant answer.

“Then you know what I am here for?”

“Perhaps,” said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.

Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear.

“My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki,” Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. “The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road.”

Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

“The road to where?” the sculptress asked.

Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.

“To wherever the road leads.”

“As an Onna bugeisha?” asked Mistress Fuyu.

Leiko tossed her fine head.

“As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions.”

Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.

A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.

“Does anyone else live here with you?” Leiko asked at one point.

“I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few.”

“You are a good artisan, then?” asked Miyuki. “Who taught you?”

“Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building.”

Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.

Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.

“Why have you come here?” Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.

Leiko laughed easily.

“I am married,” she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.

“There are a lot of married people in this world.”

Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.

“It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here.”

Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.

“Yes, I have known your husband.”

“Really? Please, tell me about him,” Leiko of Nagasaki requested. “I have come here for that story.”

Fuyu smiled slightly.

“But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?”

Leiko flushed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me.”

Fuyu’s smile deepened.

“He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you.”

“I see you know that,” said Leiko. “What else?”

“Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady.”

Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.

“He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother-in-law’s only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you.”

“Without my wish or consent,” Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.

Fuyu simply shrugged.

“The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood.”

Leiko’s eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.

“Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune,” said Fuyu, “but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother’s iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city’s cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died.”

“Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time,” said Leiko. “For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no.”

“He lived for a year among the priests,” Fuyu Tsukiko went on. “But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything.”

“Go on.”

“Is there more?”

“You know there is.”

“So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow.”

“Yes. I have it here.” Leiko touched her breast. “He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness,” she laughed. “He asked me to come rescue him.”

Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.

“But you … but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter.”

“No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything.” Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, “I was occupied, in love with a … dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. ‘It will be poetic justice,’ I thought. ‘For him to suffer as I once suffered’.”

“He waited for months for your answer,” stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. “Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago.”

“Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?” asked Leiko.

“By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be … repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.”

“Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner,” explained Leiko. “But I was occupied with fighting.”

“The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile,” continued Fuyu. “The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us.”

Leiko leaned back in her chair.

“That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?”

Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.

“It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband.”

“A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people’s responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband.”

Dusk — hot, blood-red — had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.

The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.

“Shijo died two years ago,” she said. “His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow.”

onibaba, my love

10 Saturday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, story

≈ Comments Off on onibaba, my love

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Author’s note:

In 1964, Japanese film director Kaneto Shindo made a samurai-era horror film called “Onibaba,” about a mother and daughter-in-law who lived in a swamp and murdered passing travelers. In a world that fears women’s sexuality these two took on the personification of female evil, of Onibaba, a character from Japanese mythology. Traditionally, in Noh and Kabuki theater, Onibaba appears as a shriveled old woman with a somewhat maniacal appearance, wild-looking hair and an over-sized mouth full of sharp teeth. She is an Yokai, which generally gets translated into “spirit” or “demon,” and, much like the classical opinion of Medusa, even when she is minding her own business, the male protagonists of these stories have no qualms about trying to kill her.

I am a hairy barbarian, a Gaijin, a foreigner, one with only the slimmest grasp on Japanese culture, and I tend to root for the underdog, especially when it comes to erotic fantasies. As a translation note, the word “Okaasan” that Iriai uses is simply the informal term for “Mother.” Cheers!

* * *

“I know that perversion is the most important thing between heaven and hell. Greater than uninspired love, greater than sterile death, greater even than the wisdom both bring about. For without transgression, there can be no insight. Without debauchery, there can be no compassion. Without the drunken revelry there can be no sobriety. And without any of these, all of life, and indeed, all those who have ever lived it, are a tedious lot of old men, indeed.”
— Kasannoin (Japanese courtesan, 1477)

In the city Hiroshima, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, there lived a curious musician. We shall call him Tatsuo Soga. He was an artist of great genius, though, truth be told, not of popular genius, by which I mean that most people could not stand his music. There was, it was said, something in all his work that was both offensive and fantastic, and as Ludwig van Beethoven will attest, the ticket-buying bourgeois loath all that is both offensive and fantastic. Soga was too fond, his critics claimed, of introducing unfamiliar subjects into his tonal poems. One should not listen to music to discover new terrors, they claimed. The names of his compositions suggested their queer natures: “Tsukuyomi: death of a moon god,” “The Oni at Fukuoka Bridge,” “The Descent of Emperor Jimmu into Hell,” “The Hungry Ghost’s Climax,” as well as many others, all that pointed toward a powerful imagination that delighted in the perverse, the supernatural; an artist that often executed odd, airy, delicate melodies, crafting passages of exquisite beauty, but always formidable, always unnerving.

Tatsuo Soga believed in the decadence of the ancient union between Drama and Song, and brought that decadence to such a fevered pitch in the Kabuki and Noh theaters of Hiroshima, that his Magnum opus, his grand infernal, unpublishable, unperformable composition, “Onibaba, My Love,” an audacious, darker, far more sinister take on the old Shinto tale surrounding the legendary female demon who visited lovers in their sleep. It was in vain that he had struggled to get it performed before the stage. Even the non-judgmental, open-minded dramatist, Sawamura Zenji, master of Saruwaka-cho-style Kabuki theater shook his head when Soga favored him with a sample of one of his most thrilling passages. For, as he explained, the more ribald and obscene the music became, the more the general public who attended the Theater would sneer at it, especially a general public whose ears had grown lazy, some might even say indolent, on the tawdry melodies of mediocre composers of the day. Hiroshima has never been on the cutting-edge when it comes to music, even in those heady days.

Tatsuo was not only a composer, however, he was also an excellent performer as well, especially on the high pitched bamboo flute called a Nohkan, heard in concert halls throughout all of Japan. By that instrument alone he earned a decent livelihood as a member of the troupe of music-hall musicians that performed at the Great Theater of Chiyo. Here formal, harmonious scores by respected composers kept his lewd and gonzo-freak fancies in check, though it was recorded that no less than five times had he been kicked-out and banished “forever and ever” from the troupe for shocking his fellow musicians with his ribald performances, throwing the whole company into confusion with impromptu variations of so vile and diabolic a nature that one might have well imagined that the mountain ogres, the Oni, who had inspired so many of his compositions, now had somehow gotten hold of his instrument as well.

The impossibility, however, of finding anyone his equal — which is to say, his equal during his more lucid, chaste moments — had forced his reinstatement, time and time again. He had now, for the most part, resigned himself to the narrow world of performing the assigned ‘Debayashi’ and ‘Gidayubushi,’ those traditional, drab parts that Nohkan flute players were excepted to perform. But at home he would make amends for his loathing donkeywork that paid the bills, and, wide-eyed, panting, grasp the rigid, throbbing bamboo with ferocious fingertips, pouring forth all night, often until the dawn, sending his chaotic, lascivious melodies out into the street, startling the early morning shop keepers just opening up with superstitious glances at the sky, as if the noise of that high-pitched flute foretold the arrival of some cataclysmic tsunami.

And yet– and yet, his music, his inspirations, his nightmares, did not come to him during the long hours of sleep, like so many wretched souls experience them, they were born during his waking hours, hours spent with his wife, Iriai. Often, on dark nights, she would wait at the theater door with her paper lantern and blue umbrella, to help Tatsuo with her steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his day-dreaming reveries, who knew where her poor musician husband might stumbled to? He would, after all, follow his “darling Onibaba” anywhere. Neighbors thought it cruel of him to use such an unpleasant nickname for such a beautiful woman. In the legends, Onibaba, the “night hag of Adachigahara,” appeared as a shriveled old woman, dried paps, an abyssal cunt that would literally suck a man’s essence away with a Mephistophelian hunger for flesh. Iriai was, on the other hand … well, if not always respectable in her dress and appearance, then she was at least saucy in her personality and obviously loved the poor man. Which was odd, because she made most men uncomfortable when she stood too close to them. Her hair was wiry and dark like onyx, which she brushed back from her temples into two magnificent braids. Despite her modern charms there was something slightly queer about her, though it was a challenge to say what, exactly, that was. Perhaps it was that she smiled slightly too widely, giving her neighbors the alarming notion that she was about to sink her teeth into their jugular. Perhaps it was that her eyes didn’t blink often enough, so that when a local Casanova or one of the big-cock merchants down in the market talked to her for any length of time their own eyes began unwillingly to blink on her behalf. Regardless, the reason that Tatsuo referred to his wife as his “darling Onibaba” was that, in fact, that she was a yokai, a night demon.

If Tatsuo’s wife caused heads to turn when she entered a room, it was nothing compared to his mother-in-law who lived with them, Raikou, who caused stoic monks to break out in sweat and erections simply by breathing in the same air she had recently exhaled. Of course, living with such a family caused problems of one sort or another. Raikou rarely went out into public, for most human males, driven as they are by simple hormones and a disregard for women, found they could not help themselves with such otherworldly pheromones lingering in the air as she passed by. Still, demonic Alpha females are nothing to trifle with, and more than one merchant and self-styled rake found himself nursing a black eye and broken nose every time he tried anything that was remotely indecent with the strange older woman.

What this meant, though, was that Raikou, accustomed to a randy and libidinous love-life, was stuck at home most days, moodily masturbating over memories of mountain god cocks she use to know, and how, during a thunder storm, a 100 million volts of lightning, if it struck you just so, was much more satisfying than those lame-ass leather and wood dildos the Christian nun missionaries with their unhygienic ways kept swearing by, damn all hairy foreigners.

Of course, Raikou wanted her daughter to be happy. It was the whole point of why she had pushed Iriai into marrying Tatsuo in the first place. Most human males made puny lovers, the sort that had bones that would break during the climax of a good, hard fuck. If a man can’t hold an erection for nine and a half hours at a go then is it really her fault that she had to grind his pelvic bones to jelly just trying to ride out the last of her orgasm? Such disappointments. But not like her son-in-law, though. Often Iriai would be shuddering in orgasm as Tatsuo worked her cunt and clit over with his tongue. He was one who knew the worth of a gentle lick. Soon his wife would be trying to jam his boyish face deeper into her drenched swampland, her back arced as she climaxed, literally flooding the bed for a good five feet in every direction. Then the two of them — she, blurry-eyed from cumming; he gummy-eyed from her cum — would blink and realize that Raikou had been sitting nearby the entire time, watching with something close to religious rapture on her face.

“Okaasan!” Iriai would cry at her mother, trying to disengage her husband’s face from between her thighs, always with little success. Oni cum, it has been noted, especially in the process of drying, becomes something akin to glue. In fact, as the haiku master Issa notes, more than one samurai has met his fate in post-coital bliss when he was not quick enough to wipe his face clean.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Raikou would grin and blush. “After the first eight hundred years sex doesn’t embarrass you like it once did when you were a kid.”

Time passed. It was a difficult peace between Raikou and Tatsuo. Publicly his mother-in-law tolerated him, though she claimed she could not stand his music. He, on his part, found her obsession with her daughter’s sex life a bit troublesome. One night over sake Iriai and her mother were reminiscing about their earlier years, during the heady years of Empress Jingu, when people weren’t so hung up about sex.

“I mean, look at me,” Raikou cried, pink-cheeked from inebriation, her breasts ready to fall out of her kimono as she leaned forward to drag her daughter toward her, to whisper-slobber into her ear. “I’ve done it all — boys, girls, octopus demons from Mariana Trench — and after all that fucking what did I get?”

“You mean, besides me, right?” slurred Iriai.

“O! My darling daughter!” cried Raikou, smothering the younger Oni in her cleavage. “Of course, besides you! I know you are happy. I know you cum every night–”

“Okaasan [mumble-mumble]” Iriai’s words were lost for a few moments until she was able to pull herself free from her mother’s warm embrace. “I, uh, yes,” she said, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder and downing the remaining sake in her cup. “But you know, Tatsuo has such a lovely–”

“Cock?”

“–way with me. What did you just say?”

Then Raikou blurted it all out. “It’s not fair that you get to fuck Tatsuo-chan all the time. I knew him back when you were only a three hundred year-old virgin. And he took your cherry.”

“Well, he took more than just one of my cherries.”

“Shame! My Iriai-tan-tan is not sharing, and here I am at the prime of my life. I’ve haven’t had an orgasm since the Kenmu Restoration.”

Finally it all made sense. Iriai giggled and said it must be the sake talking. She made tsk-tsk noises.

“Come on now, Mama-chan. You have had lots of lovers over the years.”

“After the first eight hundred and two you realize that not one of those bastard ever made me cum.”

“Come on, not one of them?”

“Generally speaking, mountain demons are too rough and the ghosts of drowned sailors refuse to go down again.”

“You’re saying you’ve never gotten off by being licked down there?”

“Look, idiot child, I even hooked up with a Leech god once, you’d think of all the men in the world a Leech god would know how to suck. But what did he say? He had no problem with a male Oni, but when it came to girls, ‘ugh, the taste.'”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Daughter, my sex life is in your hands! You are failing your filial duty by cumming before your beloved Okaasan!”

“Well, what do you want me to do, give you my husband?”

Raikou’s eyes grew to massive proportions and Iriai thought she could see an endless rainbow of gold reflected in them as her mother, clutching her hand, said, “Oh, daughter, you read my mind!”

Tatsuo, who, as everyone knew, was a total lightweight when it came to alcohol, burnt himself terribly by snorting his sake up through his nose in surprise. Spluttering, he gazed at his mother-in-law in amazement.

“What?!”

“I have three decades of sexual frustration ready to come out, son-in-law!” Raikou slobbered, her drool burning small holes in the wooden table top.

“It’s never too late, Mother-chan,” Iriai giggled drunkenly. “I bet he could give you an orgasm.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t– don’t I get a say in this?” Tatsuo asked, wildly. The female Oni is, as folklore will avow, insatiable. The fact that the heroic Mitsuyoshi Jubei, one of the most famed and romanticized samurai in Japan’s feudal era, imploded through an eyeball-shattering orgasm while he was jowls deep in Oni cunt remains common knowledge, at least to those who can read. Even Yosa Buson, one of the masters of Edo poetry, wrote about it: “Entering the Oni’s cunt/ like a fish drawn up from deep fathoms/ the Man’s cock implodes.” It was not one of his better verses.

“Tell you what, Mother-chan, we’ll bet on this. I’ll let him suck you to an orgasm, and if you don’t cum, you win the bet.”

Raikou raised one eyebrow and licked her lips. Somewhere someone was beating a taiko drum but at this news it was suddenly silenced. It had been a long time since she had been on the hunt, back when she once ran naked through the northern mountains, eating the enemy’s marrow and having the Ainu tribes worship her like a god. She loved the Ainu tribes, they were good folk. It would feel good again to get her wicked mojo on again.

“Let’s not be silly,” Raikou made a pouty face and pressed her trigger fingers together, the erogenous dark brown of her areola peeking out from the corner of her kimono. “Daughter of mine, soul of my flesh, there is no bet, besides what would we bet upon?”

“If I win … Tatsuo’s mountain of a cock gets to fuck you up that squishy asshole of yours, passageway to the heavens, and I know how you mumble in your dreams about how much you like it. If you win, I’ll take you to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs and mercantile establishment.”

“Public baths!” cried Raikou, tossing her cup of sake helter-skelter. “Either way, I win!” Then, turning her blood-shot eyes upon Tatsuo, she cried, bearing her breasts, “Son-in-law, service me right now!”

Raikou laughed. “O! I wasn’t finished mother; I get to watch. I’ve always wondered what it looked like when my husband fucks me pell-mell in my tender little cunt, it’s a shame we higher creatures don’t appear in mirrors. So this time I get to watch!” Iriai was grinning wickedly, as if she was already witnessing her husband’s nine and a half inch-long cock standing potent and rigid before her.

“Er, I really think I should say something here–” began Tatsuo.

“Daughter of mine, you are shameful and I love you!”

Tatsuo cried silently into his cup. These women’s sake talk were always so rude and always led to such violent excess. The idea of anal sex with his mother-in-law frightened him. Iriai’s ass was inhumanly perfect, round and with a sucking action that defied the laws of physics. Indeed, when they were dating Iriai use to joke that all Oni orifices were like black holes, they led to other dimensions that not even light could escape from. Braver men than he had literally been sucked into that dire void, their bodies, starting from their imbedded cocks, seemed to elongate as they disappeared into that howling black portal. Legends tell of divine, ear-splitting crashes as their heads went through, their shoulders hitting the edges. Then, as if the their bodies were toothpaste, slowly, foot by foot, they were sucked, with a terrible whistling noise, into the gulf. Lustful mortal life is so cheap, yet we dream of being sex gods, regardless of the price.

“Think of me, son-in-law,” Raikou purred, slowly raising the hem of her kimono to her hips, “as a supernova about to explode.”

“I’d rather not. How about a game of Cat’s Cradle?”

“Mama-chan, get your koshimaki off,” her daughter cried, referring to the traditional wrap-around underwear, popular for all of the female species at the time. “I think we have a bet. Only, just to make it a bit more exciting, if I win not only does he get to fuck you in the ass, but you have to eat my cunt while I suck on your milky pillows. Marriage can get so boring. If only I could get Tatsuo to grow large breasts like yours, Mama-chan, I think I could be happy.”

“I’m happy with what I have,” sobbed Tatsuo.

“And we still get to go to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs? That’s where I want it to be.”

“Of course.”

Raikou looked into Iriai’s inhumanly large eyes, then at her son-in-law, who made little puppy-dog moaning noises of fear, then took a long drink of her sake, emptying the cup.

“Fuck it. Either way is going to be fun. Lick away, son-in-law, lick away.”

She pulled her kimono open, exposing her naked thighs, peeled her koshimaki off, sat on the edge of the table. Iriai grabbed her husband by the back of his skull, thrusting his head down to get him encouraged. Once Tatsuo was properly placed against her mother’s girl-lips she moved so she could watch. Raikou spread her legs in ways that should be, for one who possessed the mechanics of a pelvis, impossible, and yet when the older Oni flipped her kimono up, Iriai was surprised to see her mother clean shaven between her legs.

“Oooo, you’re a baldy, too. Like mother, like daughter,” the younger demon quipped.

Abandoning himself to the Buddha’s mercy, Tatsuo caressed Raikou’s legs, working slowly from her knees down to her inner-thighs. Soon he was brushing the backs of his fingers across her pussy lips, which threw sparks against his face, causing her to sigh. Blowing gently across her cunt he kissed her down one thigh, gave the lips a gentle lick. She moved about on the table and as Tatsuo bore down on his task Iriai knew would win her bet.

The long evening passed. Tatsuo licked, nibbled, tracing with his tongue the entire Japanese alphabet upon Raikou’s clit. He sucked on it, prayed to it, fingered her pussy, probing everywhere. She flooded like high-tide on the delta, and he used some of her copious Oni cum to paint sunflowers around her anus’ rosebud, tongued her anal triangle, which she clearly liked. Raikou became wetter, salt-spray splattering in his dark hair, her her wild mountain breathing becoming quicker and quicker. Iriai pulled Raikou’s breasts free, began to play with her mother’s tits, her preternatural nipples. Tatsuo suspected his wife and mother-in-law had completely forgotten their plans of who was to win this bet.

Then it came; an Onibaba orgasm. Raikou shuddered as Tatsuo drowned himself in her, kept at her clit even when she tried to suffocate him between her thighs; pushing him further and further in as she climaxed. He could feel her nails becoming claws, leaving scar-worthy wounds in his scalp. Her human visage was slipping, slightly, like wind momentarily blowing up the skirt of a modest woman — revealing an inner-nature kept in check, but only barely.

“Fuuuck — Fuck Me, son-in-law, I need your cock in me. Now! Please. Fuck me.”

A thousand different melodies ran through Tatsuo’s mind at those words. Who cared if you had to be fucked to death to get your inspirations? If he could simply capture that essence of that experience in song, be it in one of Iriai’s blowjobs or the deepest reaches of Raikou’s ass, that was worth risking immortality for.

Now Iriai was helping him strip out of his own kimono as quickly as possible. “Tatsuo-chan, just ram it in, start fucking her for all you’re was worth,” she whispered huskily in his ear. He momentarily wondered about the second bet. It would be interesting to see his wife being pleasured by his mother-in-law. After all, the whole world is bisexual, when you got down to it, just in varying degrees.

Raikou was panting as she moved closer to her thirteenth orgasm in the last ten minutes. Her eyes were practically black ink wells, he had never seen her in such a demonic heat. Tatsuo thrust faster as she began to hit peak.

“Don’t — pull — out — darling — don’t pull out.”

“Why — would — I?” he grunted between strokes.

“My cunt can reach temperatures of a hundred and four — but only when I — O! O! O!”

At that she ran out of breath for words, uttering a low rumble like a springtime thunderstorm, rolled her eyes up in her skull and wrapped her legs around Tatsuo.

“Faster, boy. Faster, faster!”

Iriai moved around, positioned her face right above Raikou’s. She placed one hand on side of her cheeks, pulled her mother’s face to her, kissing her, then pulling back to gaze down.

“Okaasan, isn’t this so much better? Why have we been denying ourselves for so long?” Iriai kissed her again, pressed forward, letting Raikou open her mouth, accept Iriai’s tongue, gifting her daughter with her own. Tatsuo simply kept his pelvis-grind-fuck going, leaning down to suckle at her breast, feeling waves of cum wash over his hips as Raikou shuddered in another tsunami-size orgasm.

Iriai broke the kiss, quickly striped out of what was left of her clothing, reclining herself on the table as well so that she was open to her mother, ready to collect on the second part of the bet.

Tatsuo slowly disengaged, helping Raikou to sit up. The older Oni then knelt on a chair in front of her daughter’s open pussy. She moved her face towards Iriai’s deluge, started with a tentative kiss, then slowly started to work her tongue to the bone.

Raikou’s ass was now in the air and Tatsuo had yet to cum, so he positioned himself behind her, slipping back in, giving her a slow, leisurely orgasm as she worked her magic on Iriai’s clit. Iriai was clearly enjoying herself, mewing, flashing the ceiling her happy smile as they settled into a three-groove rhythm. Just as his wife was about to cum herself Tatsuo eased out of Raikou and, rounding the table, came up to her, offering Iriai his cock to suck.

“Mmmmm,” she said around her husband’s cock, then, after a deep hard suck, indicated that Tatsuo should go back to fucking her mother.

The three of them tried several different positions before Iriai stopped in mid-finger fuck, repositioning herself and her mother so they were laying belly to belly, cunt to mouth, with herself on the bottom, ordering Tatsuo to “bring the Devil’s cock here.”

She gave it another wild suck, then inserted it into her mother once more, was lapping away at her clit, licking the underside of his cock as Tatsuo ground into Raikou. The three of them were slowly building up into an universe-shattering climax. The first to go over the top was Iriai, quickly followed by Raikou. Tatsuo finally exploded himself, soaking the Onibaba’s cunt with his own sexual satisfaction, his perversions finally catching up with him. He stayed inside Raikou as long as possible, until he had emptied his reserves, pulling out to his mother-in-laws mewls of disappointment, only to be immediately sucked clean by his wife.

Once she was done Tatsuo sat down to watch as Irai tenderly licked her own mother clean of his mortal cum. Raikou gave Iriai’s pussy one last festive lick, then contented herself by sitting next to her daughter’s head, stroking her cheek.

“I have only one question,” Raikou asked dreamily. “Why didn’t we try something like this ages ago?”

“We did,” her daughter replied. “Back in 1369.”

“O piff, you know I can never recall anything prior to moving in next door to lovely Tatsuo.”

“You’ve only known him for six years, Okaasan.”

Raikou started to laugh and Tatsuo saw a deep down smile that he had not seen for a long while. It was the true form of the ancient Yokai; Raikou the Widow Maker.

“I don’t know,” her mother chuckled. “I had too much built-up sexual tension, I suppose. You just took five hundred years off me, I feel like a new woman! Thank you, thank you both for this.”

They chatted for a time, Iriai admitting that it was the best possible way to draw the three of them closer.

“Who knows? While we’re at the Aizen-Myoo Onsen hot springs it might give my husband the motivation to finish that dreadful score he’s been working on for ages and ages.”

“Dreadful?” squeaked Tatsuo, deflated in one corner of the bed.

“Do you think, daughter, that if we waited for another ten minutes that Tatsuo-tan-tan would be up for another round of rumpy pumpy? I still want my rump pumped and all this fucking has made me horny.”

“Ten minutes?” squeaked Tatsuo.

“Of course, Okaasan. If you think Tatsuo can’t handle the two of us, you weren’t paying close attention just now.”