Tags: Gargoyle, Smut, Totally-Not-London
He walks down the cobbled street of stone unsteadily. Ale burns in his gut, dulling his senses as he trudges. There’s a stuffiness to the city since his return from abroad, gaslights burning in the fog. Like ghostly candles, he reminds himself, or will-o’-the-wisps.
“It’s just your nerves, Edgar.” He mutters to himself, one shaking hand caressing his stubbled beard.
A half-truth, if he’s ever told himself one. The actuality of it was a bit more worrisome as he passes by the grand old cathedral. Since his foray into the wilds of the bushmen and great cats, his eyes have opened to the true nature of the world. A world where some monsters were more real than others.
Old Nan, if only you were still alive, the stories I could tell you. He muses to himself.
His ears prick as a sound drifts down to him from above. Stone scraping on stone. A sultry, smoky giggle. Part of him wants it to be just his imagination, but part of him already knows the source, his skin chilling in the autumnal night air.
As the sound of great wings expanding reaches him, Soames is already running. His calves burn from the exertion, the uneven stones of the streets making the effort harder. Oh, how he misses the dirt paths of the distant past. The freedom of his toes and skin to the warm, arid air.
He mustn’t look back, he tells himself.
“Why the teasing chase, love? Don’t you know how absolutely crazy that drives me?”
His pursuer is easily keeping pace with him, her claws digging great gauges in the claustrophobic row houses of the great city. Flecks of brickwork and mortar fall to the street, stirring some candles to light in the bedroom windows. The devil’s embers glowing in her eyes fiercely, intent on capturing him.
“She’s just a figment of your imagination, you’re clearly drunk.” He huffs to himself between breaths, top hat sliding off of his head as his evening coat flares behind him dramatically. Oh, how he’s missed this, the drama of the chase. Tiger stripes and bamboo planks, he reminds himself.
The gargoyle laughs, as he’s certain only something as heavy as stone could cause such domestic destruction. “Keep telling yourself that, Edgar. It’ll make our little tryst that much more enjoyable.” She’s only a few meters above him, looking down at him with a mixture of predatory greed and unabashed lust. “It pains me so that you’d forgotten me so easily! All those lonely nights!”
His pursuer drops, having gained the lead on him, landing on the street with a loud thumping sound. The statuesque creature dwarfs him by a foot. She stands there, naked, her muddled grey skin muted in the deep fog of the night. Only the filigree of red allows him to make out some of the feminine curves of her body, breasts as still as stone while she takes him in.
“You’ve gotten older.”
“Wearier as well, I’m afraid,” He states as matter-of-factly as he can, trying to catch his breath. His lungs burn as he takes in what he can. It-- She’s waiting patiently, powerful thighs sitting on clawed feet. The extended ankle giving her a sort of comical look, like wearing heeled boots. Her claws agitatedly digging into the cobblestone beneath the demon. “How in the devil did you know it was me?”
“Hard to miss the smell of the man who dumped me, quite literally, into the depths of a stinking river.”
Wings folding around her in a strangely organic fashion like a cloak, the gargoyle leans forward. Her breath is cold, eyes narrowing with some bitterness to them. “You could have at least made amends, ‘Sir’ Edgar Soames. Rather than running off to…” She takes in several whiffs of his scent. “The East.”
She suppresses a giggle, one clawed hand holding her temple.
“No wonder you had such delusions of grandeur in our last chase! ‘The bait-man to the tiger’! That’s what you called yourself! Though I must say, not quite as limber as you once were, are you? I was nearly bored this go around.”
Edgar smiles to himself now, mustache tickling his lip. The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on him. A drunkard holding a conversation with an all-too-animated piece of stone craftsmanship. Oh, how old he feels now that she mentions it. “Owe you an apology then, I suppose, don’t I?”
“Well then, Missus…” He purses his lips, staring intently into the ruby eyes of the gargoyle. “What was your name again?”
“Don’t have one.”
There’s a hoarse laugh as the faintest of smiles reaches him. For something so readily eager to give chase like the fabled Spring-Heeled Jack, she was being rather cordial. It’s not all too surprising to him when she glowers and moves forward, cupping his bearded chin in her hand.
“That, dear Edgar, is the second debt you owe me.”
One cold, stone hand reaches forward and cups his loins beneath the trousers. There’s the faintest bit of a stirring, something pleasant company had been able to accomplish. Not for some time since his self-imposed exile from the city. “Oh? Why would I owe you the name, then?”
“Oh, come now, If you do not remember then your little friend must.”
There’s a familiarity piercing through the ale-fueled haze. Yes… He remembered her, if only in a dream. A drunken night, the baseboards of the belfry creaking beneath them. A strange, peaceful quiet when the sun rose. Then, his escape the next moonrise.
“You… I lost you in the mud pits of the wharf.” His breath hitching as the gentle cupping of his loins tightens into a vice-like grip painfully. “There’s no way you could’ve escaped the winter’s frost. Unless…”
“Unless some poor little fishermen from the east side found me in the shallows and returned me to my rightful place. I must say, the clergymen did a wonderful job of restoring me to my rightful luster," She says, giving herself look, "Shame the weather disagrees."
The clawed hand releases his loins to grip his right wrist as the gargoyle smiles devilishly. There’s a grating noise as she presses his open palm onto her left breast. Her flesh is cold and rigid, but there is a suppleness to the stone. As if it could be heated and made malleable.
“Makes you a little curious to see what else they restored, doesn’t it?”
He knows he can’t escape. Not only is she much larger than he is, she is much, much stronger. Had he been a decade younger, perhaps he could’ve tricked her into the water of the great river again. Edgar’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows dryly.
“That’s the spirit, old man!” The nameless gargoyle exclaims, laughing to herself. Her smile expands as she releases his now sore wrist from her grip. She’s quite the ravishing creature, he deduces, his eyes wandering up and down her form. Curves upon curves, much like the statues of old. Feminine beauty captured in stone. “But, first; My name. Then, all debts are settled and we can get down to having our… fun.”
“You make it sound as if that’s no small task.” He grumbles, sobering up. “A man cannot name a woman he doesn’t know.”
“But you do know me!” The faintest smell of musk in the air as the gargoyle’s eyes light up, her pupils narrowing into the slightest of diamonds. Her tail lashes back and forth agitatedly, smacking into the wall of a row house. “Or at least, you knew me enough to pillow with me.”
Edgar’s brow furrows at the blatant forwardness of the creature. Quite audacious, he reminds himself, of her to consider that to be pillowing. It was more like a battle, he remembers. A callused finger thoughtfully strokes his beard, eyes squinting in the pale, foggy light. To misname her would incur her wrath, but to leave her unnamed would be an even greater insult still.
“Gemma. That will be your name.” He says, noting the gilded bracelets and anklets. The ruby red of her filigree seemed to glow with internal magic as she gave a small, elated nod to him.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it, Soames.”
“Well, a true gentleman could hardly pillow with an anonymous woman. Or a woman that would pillow with an anonymous man,” He forces a grin. A forgotten giddiness in his breast as she flexes her wings open to the full expanse. “Besides, this is all a dream-- A liquor induced dream.”
His statuesque demon recoils as if struck by an unseen blow. He knows she’s not really hurt, but rather, toying with him. It’s strange, he tells himself, her hair seeming to wave in the night air with her movements. Stranger yet that as he continues to sober up, he’s at peace with the situation.
“If it’s all a dream, then perhaps you should indulge in it all the more, shouldn’t you. After all, the night is young—Younger than us both.” Gemma purrs, her talons clutching the ground as she takes leaps into the sky. “A lady can only wait so long, and I have been quite patient with you.”
Devilish bogeyman or not, there’s a knot in Edgar’s stomach. Fear has been replaced by something else. Worst yet, he’s more than welcome to it. A night of indulging in his dream fantasies would do well to clear up the malaise around him since he’d returned to this old city. Perhaps it was worth playing out.
“Lead the way, my lady.”
“You intend to walk or run? Oh no, we’re going to go back to our little… love nest, in the quickest way possible!” She swoops down, talons grasping painfully onto his shoulders as the great stone gargoyle lifts him off the streets. Their ascent into flight is quick and sudden, dispersing a small circle in the great grey fog below. “I do apologize for the pain, but we can’t have you falling!”
Wind whistles past his ears, the skyline of the city beneath his dangling feet, Edgar lets out a glee-filled laugh. He was alive, or as alive as he’d ever been returning to this god-awful place of stone and iron. This was true freedom he tells himself as she flies towards that old belfry tower. It stands proudly taller than the rest of the chapel. A centuries-old thing. But, per the fashion of the day, it too was restored to its former glory.
“Enjoying yourself?” She asks, keeping her eyes on the target. The great glass window that would lead to the cathedral was no option. Too loud, too suspicious even for her. So, she banks before they smack into the wall, allowing her luggage to rap-a-tap up the tower with his boots. “Now, that isn’t so bad is it?”
“Oh! Most wonderful indeed!” He exclaims exuberantly. They fast approach the window now, high on the tower. Away from prying eyes. It wouldn’t be as auspicious as his manor’s modest bedroom, but it would suffice. “Tell me, Gemma! Is there at least a bed?”
“Bed? No, but we won’t be having our fun on the boards, that I can assure!” She calls down, flying slightly higher than the window to allow him into the bell tower. Boards creak beneath his boots as he steps inside. The air smells of age and dust, but there is a small cot on the side, stuffed to the brim with down and hay. “It’s not much, Edgar. But then, the bell ringer hardly ever complains. Unless it’s the cold of winter. Then he at least has some company, per the communion.”
In the small meager sleeping quarters is a bottle of wine, getting another grin out of him. Enough drinks for tonight, old man, he reassures himself. There’s a dull thumping as she joins him, slightly bent over to avoid her horns ringing any of the bronze bells.
“The clergy do enjoy their cheat on occasion, though it’s rather funny. What the church doesn’t know won’t hurt them, I suppose.”
“Wouldn’t be the first thing they’ve neglected in the past.” She muses. “After all, the Templars were in bed with Baphomet. Or would that be plural? I always forget.”
As he turns, the heavy wool of his evening coat falling to the floor with a shifting sound. The gargoyle—Gemma is holding a piece of oiled cloth expectantly in one clawed hand. A lascivious smile on her face as she notices her mate’s stocky physique. Cold sweat stains his white shirt, the buttons glimmering in the low light of the bell tower.
“Is there something you want me to do…” His voice trailing as her wings fold themselves behind her back, giving him a full view of her. All of her—Most of her, more correctly. Her wide thighs and hips obscuring that final, womanly crevice from his prying eyes. “Or is that for me to dry off?”
“Polish me.” She purrs to him. “Let your mind wander as you know my body, much like I know yours.”
A bit of a laugh escapes his lips as he rolls the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow. Yes, polishing stone. You’ve gone and lost your mind now, Edgar. Wait until the boys down at the pub hear about this one.
“Now, my lady. Where should I start?” He asks, feeling the damp weight of the cloth in his hand. Her only response is to give her body a slight jiggle. It’s strange. The longer he spends in the company of the great beast the more alive she appears. Perhaps his touch had warmed more than just her mood.
Slowly, carefully, he places it on her neck. Gemma lets out a small, disappointed huff as he works the fine oil into her body. Her flesh is irresistible, yielding with each stroke or rub from his ministrations. The more he works, the more her muted grey flesh becomes a lustrous white color—Pearl white—marble.
“Well, that’s unexpected.”
“Oh? Thought I was some granite trollop did you, dear Edgar?” She says, giving him a sidelong glance to behind her as he reaches the middle of her back, between her great wings. “I assure you, my sculptor spared no expense when he made me. But then, it wasn’t his work that gave me life.”
His palms begin to sweat when he strokes the copious curves of her buttocks, the flesh warm beneath the cloth as she bends ever so slightly forward for Edgar’s viewing pleasure. There, between her thighs, is her bountiful folds, lovingly crafted by the sculptor. A faint, musky perfume reaching his nostrils that makes him bristle his mustache.
“Careful not to miss this.” She croons. “After all, this is more delicate work than the rest of me. One that requires a certain—panache.”
“In due time. I’m sure.” He huffs, bringing the cloth down towards her thighs and hips. She was sparing no expense at teasing him, a strange contrast to her behavior from earlier. Rather than find it worrying, it’s almost comforting. “Tell me again, Gemma. Why the interest in me if I’d just returned?”
“A woman’s jealousy knows no reason.” She says, turning to face him, raising her arms to the front to be cleaned as thoroughly as the back. Sweat beads on his temples as he notices in greater detail her quite literally sculpted physique. “After all, you did nearly break my heart. Was I to actually have one.”
There’s a tension in the air as he starts from the bottom and works upwards. Her eyes never leave him until all that remains are her breasts and head. Before he can react, she reaches down with both clawed hands and forces his open palms onto her once-still breasts, now warm and malleable. Releasing her grip on him, Edgar’s left standing there groping the taller monstrous woman.
“But, the cloth--!”
“Forget it. I want you to truly feel me.” She says, cupping his bearded chin in one clawed hand, looking into his eyes. Green like the verdant fields of the countryside. There’s a softness to her expression as she presses her face forward into his. Their lips crashing together, Gemma’s tongue hungrily seeking his. His hands tighten their grip on her bosom while he strokes back at her until she breaks the kiss. “And taste me.”
“A woman who knows what she wants.”
“Oh, and how to get it, as well,” she says, one digit hooking each of his buttons. She slices upwards from bottom to top, much as when Edgar had cleaned her to her pearly luster. Gemma’s eyes widen ever so slightly when she sees them, three equidistant scars across his chest. “Oho? Now, what trouble have you gotten yourself into in these past years, Hmm?”
“A tiger hunt,” He replies, sucking in his cheeks, “Wasn’t as fast as I would’ve liked. Beast nearly took my heart out.”
Gemma blinks once, twice. Then erupts into another fit of laughter, hugging him close to her. There’s a growing heat beneath her stony exterior, palpable to the touch. The ruby red filigree glowing a dim orange. Edgar can feel his skin nettling ever so slightly as he’s cradled against her, the stirring in his loins stronger than before.
“You were plenty fast when I last chased you,” She croons, “In more ways that one. I’d hope you’d have learned some patience.”
“Should I expect some kind of repayment for my handiwork at cleaning you?” He asks mischievously.
“Only if you let me be on top,” She replies sultrily, following close behind as he stumbles out of his trousers, “After all, my body may be stone but I’m still very much a succubus at heart.”
She’s fast, faster than he expects as she tackles him onto the feathered cot, stirring the dust. He winces, shoulders still sore from the earlier flight, but Gemma is strangely tender. Her forked tongue traces his scars, one claw gently stroking his flaccid member. Oh, how he’s missed this. The excitement of never knowing.
“You may be older, but sturdier it seems,” She says, smirking devilishly, “The trousers did you no justice.”
Her grip is firm, but also tender. She takes care not to harm him, stroking his shaft up and down while she takes him in for another kiss. Blood begins to flow south, engorging him as her free claw brings his right hand back to her breast, kneading it hard. She moans, a deep rumbling sound.
“Quite ready and eager, aren’t you?” She coos. “Just say the words, tell me what you want.”
“I want you.” He replies, his fears far into the back of his mind. He knows escape is impossible. Both from the truth of his love and from her. His affirmation is all she needs as she straddles on top of him, pressing the flared head of his cock to her entrance.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Gemma presses her hips all the way down to his.
The silken depths of her marble vagina are fantastically smooth and soft, easily taking the length and girth of Edgar’s member as she lets out a long, elated sigh. He’s surrounded by her warmth on all sides, almost as if it were a motherly embrace. She rises and falls, once, twice, and he loses it inside of her.
“Still fast,” she laughs, “Or were you just backed up?”
Edgar squirms beneath her weight, cock pulsing as it releases its seed inside of her. No human woman could or would ever compare to the sensation of being inside of her. That, he reminds himself, is the true terror of the world. Man-eaters in the form of women.
“Uh…” He manages, trying to catch his breath as she resumes riding him. His erection hasn’t dissipated in the slightest, tingling and somewhat painful. Gemma moans as the wet noises of their coupling grow. With a renewed ferocity, she begins to ride him in earnest, talons digging into the wooden floor around them.
“Don’t worry though,” She reassures him, “The sun will be up sooner than later.”
Pressing down harder than before, she gyrates her hips, grinding into his pelvis. Succubus of the flesh or not, her wings and copious posterior do nothing to impede her riding. The faintest of shapes could be seen in her eyes while his penis twitches in another release, almost like a heart. It had to be a trick of the eye, he tells himself.
Her breathing comes out short and ragged. The floor of the belfry almost seems like it’d give way under her immense weight. He fears she may send them both toppling down into the darkness or break his pelvis. But, she smiles warmly, cupping his face with both of her clawed hands. Her laughter is as ragged as her breathing as she finds her rhythm.
“Don’t worry, love,” She moans, “It’ll all be over soon.”
Folding on top of him, she moves to keep him in place. Pinning his arms above his head, on the cold wood floor with her claws, she once again silences him with a kiss. A great convulsion passes upwards in a great sucking motion from within her pussy. Their iniquitous coupling reaches a plateau as he groans, balls contracting.
Edgar’s cock pulses as he empties his final load into the gargoyle. Her kiss is passionate and loud, stifling his own want to scream. There’s a warm wetness where they’re both joined. Their embrace seems like it lasts for an eternity before Gemma dismounts, snickering at the darkening of his chest hair.
“You got a bit of oil on you,” she says, “But I suppose that’s that.”
His brow furrows as she walks towards the window, empty pedestal mere feet below. Her pedestal, he realizes. Eyes heavy as he watches her perch on what could be her home, she smiles, spent seed flowing down her inner thigh. He lets out a contented sigh, sitting with his legs hanging from the window sill.
“Don’t be so sad, Soames,” she muses, “I assure you my bite isn’t nearly as bad as my bark. That is, unless you’re into that sort
“Will I see you again?” He asks, already knowing the answer in his heart.
“So long as you’re in this city, you’ll know where to find me,” she replies, her posture stiffening. There’s a sadness as she sighs, a faint glow of orange peeking out of the haze of the autumn fog. The city would wake soon. Sunrise waits for no man. “Try not to let this place eat you alive, Edgar.”
Then, silence. The gargoyle was frozen in time, an amused smile on her face.