Chapter 1

Sybil sicced a succubus on me.

Second year of college, studying hard for an engineering degree. I’m Robert Richard. That’s Cajun, pronounced “REE-shard”, and I’ve been called ‘Bud’ by friends and family ever since my younger sister hung the tag on me when she learned to talk.

Anyway, I’m from a little farming community in Cajun country of south Louisiana, and when I decided to go to college, my great aunt and uncle had a garage apartment that they kindly turned over to me gratis, where ‘gratis’ means “you get to clean it up, make repairs to make it livable, then you can live in it if you can keep from destroying the place or attracting the cops”.

That part was easy for me. I was raised on a farm, so I grew up handy with tools, and the last two summers I’d snagged a job with an electrical contractor, so one of the things Aunt Doris and Uncle Gene got was an upgraded electrical system because I, as a college student and child of the twenty-first century, had more electrical and communications needs than when the little place was built in 1955.

The ‘attracting the cops’ thing was easy for me. Small Louisiana farming communities are usually centered around family and church, mostly a local Catholic church, but in my case, it was Baptist, great-grand-dad having had a falling out with the parish priest back in 1920-something. The family had been Baptist ever since, and not just in a perfunctory manner, but solid, pillar of the church Baptist.

So you take a kid out of that environment and stick him in the (relatively) big city nearby, in college, you might expect that veneer to wash off along about the first weekend he’s on his own.

Didn’t happen. Our pastor recommended me to the college’s Baptist Student Union, and there I found friends and a social venue, and in some cases, study partners.

For the most part, that’s where I hung out, at least a starting point, and from there I and similarly-minded friends of both sexes ventured forth to movies and somewhat sane social events. Of course everybody there wasn’t quite as serious about that whole morality thing, so occasionally I found myself in places where I wasn’t really comfortable. Sometimes I went along. Being there didn’t mean that I did the alcohol or the drugs or whatever, but I knew they existed.

Same with female companionship. Some of those young ladies were very free with their bodies.

Good boy, though. Didn’t partake.

In retrospect, that’s how I got into trouble.

I shoulda known. Just the name, Sybil, has attached to it tales of woe, multiple personalities, starting back in Greek mythology where that Sybil was an oracle and witch.

Sybil Golding was about the ‘alternative’ lifestyle. I thought goth, but ultimately found that to be only a thin wash over everything she was into.

I thought ‘cute’. Pixy-ish, a little plump, resulting in a nice-looking set of breasts. Big brown eyes. Hair in a short coif that went well with the pixy schtick. Dressed in black. Visible tattoos. Nose ring. Multiple ear rings. And kind of a bubbly, outgoing personality.

I kind of fell for her, probably more for the novelty than anything else.

Started out, after meeting at a party, with meeting for coffee, then chai at an Indian restaurant. She liked to talk and she had opinions on a lot of things, but it didn’t take long for me to see all the New Age threads worked into her make-up. The Baptist kid kept his mouth shut.

For a while.

There’s this place a couple of blocks from campus that is like the nexus of everything Sybil held dear – crystals, incense, Tarot, other arcana, that place did it. The owner, well, she was always the one in the store when we visited, was a late forties-ish woman who affected the look to go with the place, shawl over her long hair, deep, dark eyes enhanced by makeup, a deep, grating voice, that she could soften to make a sale.

I went into that shop several times with Sybil. She always walked out with something.

“You never say anything, Robert,” she said. “You could use some of this...” She showed me today’s purchase of incense. Smell...” she held the little box to my nose.

“Ain’t bad, but ... I don’t like the smoke thing...”

“You need to loosen up. The smoke is prayers rising...”

“Syb,” I said, “that ain’t the way I grew up. I do prayers, morning and night. That stuff ain’t real.”

“This incense?”

“None of that. Crystal’s’re just rocks. Tarot readings, fortune telling, that’s all crap.”

The incense speech was the end of me and Sybil. We parted with her looking at me, waving fingers in some fashion that I suppose she thought would have some effect, and saying, “There are things you DON’T know about, Robert Richard. You’ll find out one day...”

I guess I regretted a bit the fact that I’d parted ways with a fellow human being, one who was good to talk with, who presented a view of things different than my own, but I had several friends, male and female.

One of the girls from the Student Union learned of the rift. “That girl’s bad news, Robert, from a spiritual sense. You know what the bible says about being unequally yoked. You need to look at girls who believe like you do.”

“Are you offering?”

“You know I’m engaged, Robert.”

“I do know that. But if my relationship can end...”

“See?!? You thought it was a relationship.”

“Friendship. Never anything more...”

“I heard that she’s part of a real live witches’ coven.”

“Seriously? C’mon, Darcy. Buncha college girls playing games. That’s all...”

“They think it’s serious...”

“They’ll outgrow that. Campus is full of New Age whackos.”

The apostle Paul acknowledged sins of the flesh, saying “I am of the flesh, sold into slavery under sin. I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate ... I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do”

That’s my struggle. I’m a normal young male and there’s a lot of very attractive ‘flesh’ out there, some of it practically throwing itself at you. Me. Not unattractive. Clean. No bad habits. Studious. My upbringing keeps me from ... well, truth be known, I’m a nineteen year old virgin. Who succumbs to masturbation, complete with fantasies about any of a number of females, real and imaginary and all the shading in between. Sybil’s appeared in some of those sessions. So has Darcy.

I try NOT to give in every night and I’m mostly successful, but I found that if I don’t relieve pressure at a time of my choosing then the pressure will relieve itself in due time and make a mess.

I thought that maybe I was pushing the distance between relief sessions a bit too far. Maybe Sybil was an outlet, and now she’s out of the picture.

Particularly vivid dream. Absolutely animalistic relief. I woke up from it. That happens. Usually I find myself with a sticky, viscous mess. Not tonight. But I thought for sure ... the dream ... The feelings...

And that general achiness in my balls was gone, just like ... but I didn’t. No evidence.

I went to class, like normal. I spent the afternoon at the Student Union, went for dinner with a bunch of friends, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Back to the apartment, shower, study, and off to bed.

And it happened again. Most unusual because usually after one episode, I can stave off conscious desires for a few days, and if it’s an unconscious event, okay, I AM talking about a wet dream here, then I’m ‘safe’ for a while as well.

But this was a dream. Wasn’t wet. I wasn’t NEEDING relief. But it happened again. Same results. Or rather, lack of results.

After four days of this, the weekend came, I drove home for a visit on Saturday with the intention of joining the family at church Sunday morning before returning to my apartment.

There’s one thing I wasn’t gonna do on a Saturday night in Mom and Dad’s. In the wee hours of the morning, only the vaguest of thoughts recognized exquisite warmth and wetness at my crotch. Tiny bits of my conscious mind took the available data and arrived at the conclusion that I was being fellated. And nothing I could do could stop it, even if I wanted to stop it.

“You’re kinda quiet this morning, son,” Dad said. “Problem?”

“No sir. Just a lot of different things in my head, is all.”

Driving back to the apartment, I was trying to analyze. Fellated? Sucked off? Blown? Only in my imagination had I experienced anything like it. I knew about it. What young male hasn’t heard of it in various permutations. But I’d never experienced...

Matter of fact, the closest ... Well, that was Sybil at the movies, and the most she did was bite my ear and cup her hands over my erection from our kissing.

In my fantasies it was a pleasant and desirable thing, and now, in my dreams, it was even better than I imagined.