"The demonic law. Succubi only visit sleeping men. That's our nature."

"Why are you here, then?" he demanded. Her fidgeting was really working him up. She certainly knew that part of her trade! Did she want his eyes closed so he couldn't see her take his wallet? No chance; his wallet was locked safely in his car.

She didn't answer right away. She put a hand inside her own waistband and worked it down under her skirt until her fingers touched him. She began to scrape the sand from between her legs. A neat maneuver, and somehow everything looked ordinary from outside. No one could see what her hidden hand was doing. "Things get dull in daylight."

Now her hand was finished, and he felt her touch on his tight trunks, stroking the zipper fly. He had thought he was at the peak of excitation, but this elevated it another level.

"So you thought you'd drum up a little after-hours business," he said. "But I'm not asleep." Why was he arguing? If she deserted him now, he might never abate his erection! Priapism, it was called: the perpetual rigidity. He understood that could get very uncomfortable.

"That's what I said. But if you'll just close your eyes and breathe evenly, it'll be the same. No one will know."

What the hell, he thought. They had made no agreement. She would have tough luck collecting her money after the performance. He closed his eyes.

"That's good." Her hidden hand worked down the zipper, opening his fly with expertise, sliding the webbing across. His penis sprang out, hurting again as the kink was finally released, but wasting no time about swelling to its full proportion.

Prior cracked open an eye apprehensively, but all was concealed beneath her skirt, which now seemed voluminous. Quite a piece of apparel, that could not stretch past her knees at one time, and covered everything at another time. But of course a succubus was magic, and her skirt would be magic too. It looked as though he remained buried in sand, with the girl innocently straddling the ridge: a game people played. Some game!

"Closed," she reminded him gently, her fingers massaging his member, squeezing it for the final bit of growth. "Never can tell when the supervisor's watching."

Some supervisor! Was it an invisible satyr, calibrating indexes of performance on an abacus? But Prior obliged. Actually, there was nothing to see; even her full breasts were chaste from this angle.

There was something to feel, though. Deprived of sight, his awareness magnified the inputs of touch. Her muscular thighs shifted, her cushiony buttocks adjusted—and warm damp flesh contacted his angled shaft. That living cleft he had glimpsed as she squatted was coming to embrace his own flesh!

But the angle was wrong. Those slick vagina lips were squeezing the sidewise length rather than absorbing the business end. He was on the verge of squirting into space—or at least into her skirt—and he couldn't use his hand to correct the contact!

But her fingers were there, lifting his pulsing rod, cupping the glans. The angle changed, the head brushed up against the lubricated channel and nudged delightedly into the hot cavity.

"When are you going to have your erection?" she inquired, piqued. "Don't you like women?"

The organ sank into the hole, or more correctly rose into it. Prior felt the lubricated closure pass the knob and encompass the shaft. Her flesh tightened about his own, rhythmically. "That's it!" he gasped.

"But that's hardly four inches! I like at least six, and can take eight. Nine in an emergency."

"Three point nine seven inches!" he whispered. "Erect."

"You mean all those emanations I picked up, all that worry about your hard-on showing, like a tower standing out for miles around... four inches?"

"I have an ambitious imagination," he admitted.

"Ambitious! That's fraud!" she said crossly. "Here I thought I'd get my bore properly reamed...." She manipulated her buttocks to bring him in further. "I assumed that anyone named after Priapus—"

"That was my old man's wishful thinking." He had been through this before. "But my dong ended up just like his. Potent, but small."

She sighed, clenching him internally. "Well, too late to cry over spilt milk—not that I ever do spill any. Let's have it."

As she spoke, the muscles of her vulva contracted with singular authority, milking him compellingly. His orgasm ripped through his body like a fire through dry timbers. He climaxed at once, his hips thrusting up convulsively as his juice let fly. If he had done that in air, he could have knocked a seagull out of the sky!

The fire burned out as quickly as it had spread, leaving him breathlessly limp and warm. "Well, at least you had a fair quantity," she observed as he shuddered to a halt. "Good things sometimes do come in small packages." Her vagina still clasped him tightly, squeezing out the dregs and holding them as his spent penis slowly shrank. "Good to the last drop. But you really should wash your miniature more often."

"It itches when I wash it," he protested, embarrassed. Then "How can you tell?"

"Sex is my business, you know. I can taste and measure everything that enters that vestibule. Your seed is potent enough, but your tool is small and uncircumcised, and frankly it's pretty cheesy too."

"Smegma is a natural secretion," he said. But he was chagrined. It did collect when he wasn't careful, and he hadn't been careful the past few days. Maybe that was the cause of his erection. Had he known what would happen on the beach....

His diminished penis finally slurped out of her vagina, which sealed up after the exodus as tightly as any anus after evacuation. She had not been fooling about salvaging the seed!

"Which girl do you want to have it?" she asked seriously as she lifted off him.

For a moment his organ was open to the sky. Prior sat up hurriedly, packed in his apparatus together with an inadvertent handful of sand, and zipped up his fly. "Have what?"

"Your donation. I have to do it within half an hour, usually, or too many sperm cells die and it can't take. I don't have refrigeration capacity the way my northern cousins do. Of course their whole bodies are icy cold, which makes collection difficult except in the case of the most determined dreaming sinners, the kind who would shoot off into icebergs if they had the right sized holes in them. And her period has to be right, too. The supervisor's very finicky about such details."

"You mean you're serious about this succubus-incubus bit? It's not just a come-on?"

"Of course it's a come-on. You came; I got on," she said, making a moue. Her lips were very expressive; she probably knew how to use them in her profession, too. "Hurry up. Make a choice. Someone sleeping, of course."

He tried to call her bluff. "Don't you have to—to convert? To incubus?"

"Just watch me carefully. I can't be too obvious, obviously. People would stare, and we aren't supposed to attract attention to ourselves. Not in a business connection, anyway. A demon can get herself burned, that way. Are you going to choose?"

Prior looked about. Time had passed, and either some of the girlchildren had blossomed into nubility or the beach fauna had benefited from some turnover. But in his present sated state he found this interesting primarily in an intellectual way. He had no particular urge to impregnate any of the pregnable. In fact, the notion was a trifle disgusting.

Not that it would come to that. Succubi were creatures of folklore. This doll had had her fun and spun him a fairytale while he, no fairy, had spun into her tail, and now he would play the game out until she broke, and maybe she never would remember what she had intended to charge him for the occasion.

"Her," he said, gesturing to the adjacent matron, now blissfully snoring as the sun cooked her flesh.