Praise (4)
There exists a monster known as a succubus.
It is a lewd demon that slips unseen into the bedchamber of a solitary man, greedily milking him dry of his essence before vanishing into the night—filling its belly through pure carnal theft. Few have ever laid eyes on one, yet those who have all say the same thing: they would gladly surrender every drop of their essence to a succubus. No—they would beg on their knees, licking the creature’s toes if only she would deign to suck them dry.
The reason, of course, lies in the succubus’s beauty.
Hers is a face that could topple kingdoms. Add to it a body of pure sensual excess, and the result is a woman so perfect she seems possible only in dreams. The mere thought of receiving her intimate attentions is enough to make many a man declare he would happily become a withered husk if it meant tasting that devoted service even once.
Beyond her looks, a succubus has unmistakable traits. Bat-like wings sprout from her head or back; an arrow-tipped tail sways coyly from her hips like a fox’s brush. She dresses in garments more shameful than nakedness itself, all the better to set a man’s blood ablaze. And upon her lower belly she bears a lewd sigil—another mark of her kind.
By every one of those measures, the figure waiting in Lowen’s room was a succubus without wings.
“D-Does it… suit me?”
Ariel peered up at him, fidgeting. Her eyes, dyed a bewitching violet, trembled with unshed tears.
Where does she get off still playing the Saintess?! You shameless little succubus!
Any cleric who did not know her would have shouted exactly that.
It suited her.
It suited her perfectly.
It suited her so well that one could almost believe she had never been a Saintess at all—only a succubus all along.
A cow costume.
Thigh-high socks that bit into her plump thighs, opera gloves that lent elegance to her slender arms, a bikini that barely contained the heavy weight of her breasts—every piece was a riot of black-and-white cow-print. A headband with cow ears sat atop her hair; a collar with a cowbell hung around her throat. And from her rear swayed a long cow’s tail, flicking as if to shoo away flies.
How was this a Saintess?
How was this the girl chosen by God?
How was this one of the seven holy maidens?
In that moment, the holy stigma on Ariel’s lower belly looked for all the world like a succubus’s lewd mark.
Lowen rubbed his eyes. He wondered if exhaustion had conjured a hallucination, yet even through his blurred vision Ariel remained exactly as she was.
“Haa…”
He exhaled a long, weary breath and looked down at her.
Their eyes met.
She flinched and looked away. Then, gathering courage, she lifted her gaze to meet his again—only to grow shy once more and turn aside.
“What is it this time?”
He had expected this. Once Ariel learned the taste of physical conversation, it was only natural she would start asking for more. He simply had not expected the seduction to come so soon. The vivid memory of her crying out while he pounded her rear still burned fresh; their first coupling had not even been a week ago.
“I… I wanted to keep my promise…!”
She forced the words out as though wringing them from her throat.
“Promise?”
“Th-That… last time you said you’d let me praise you…”
Lowen cast his mind back.
“Ah…”
Right. Once he was formally recognized as her guardian, Ariel had promised to praise him.
He pressed his fingers hard against his brow. He had imagined a simple head-pat at most. Looking at her current outfit, however, it was clear things would not end with a mere ruffle of his hair.
“Bishop Lowen…”
Ariel tugged at his sleeve.
“Sh-Shall we go to the bed…?”
As though it had been foretold. As though it had been promised. She led him toward the bed, and Lowen followed with only token resistance.
Is this truly all right?
A lump of guilt lay chained by hesitation deep in his heart. They had already shared their bodies once. Back then, at least, there had been the excuse of soothing the side effects of her divine power. But now? Was there any proper justification?
No. She dressed it up as “praise,” yet beneath that pretext this was simply the Saintess’s own delicious transgression.
Ariel laid him down upon the bed. Whether from fatigue or the lingering haze of drink, Lowen toppled onto the mattress like a reed in the wind.
“B-Bishop Lowen, rest your head here, please.”
Settling at the head of the bed, she patted her thighs invitingly.
“Saintess.”
“Don’t refuse me.”
Her firm tone left no room for argument. After a moment’s hesitation, Lowen laid his head upon her lap.
Soft, yielding flesh cradled the back of his skull. It was comfortable. Ariel’s thigh pillow was pure temptation to sleep. The pleasant plumpness, combined with the gentle scent of baby powder, clouded his thoughts.
“Just as I promised… I’ll stroke you.”
She began to comb her fingers through his hair. At that gentle touch his eyes drifted shut of their own accord. Drowsiness washed over him—yet sleep would not come. The image of her vulgar costume kept rising behind his eyelids. The thought of the Saintess, dressed so lewdly, stroking his head made rest utterly impossible.
“……Bishop Lowen.”
A thin, trembling voice forced his eyes open.
He tried to look up at her face, but all that filled his vision were two enormous peaks framed against the ceiling. Viewed from below, Ariel’s breasts were overwhelming. Their sheer size stole his breath for a heartbeat, yet he managed an answer.
“Yes, Saintess.”
“I’m truly happy that you’ll stay as my guardian.”
Her face was hidden by the swell of her chest, but he could picture the soft smile she must be wearing.
“It makes all the hard work worthwhile.”
A faint smile touched Lowen’s lips.
“S-So… what I wanted to ask is……” She drew the words out. The small hand that had been stroking his hair slid down to cup his cheek. “When we return to the Grand Cathedral… w-will you still stay by my side then, too?”
The faint smile vanished. Lowen’s mouth closed in cool silence.
This bond lasts only until the next spring wind melts the winter. When spring returns, this life of sweet transgression—this game of fire—will end. Ariel will go back to the Grand Cathedral, and Lowen will spend the rest of his days somewhere no one knows. Even being together like this now is absurd. We live in different worlds. Yes—people from separate worlds, divided by a boundary of pure fiction. The fact that we can meet so tenderly is only some mischievous magic at work. When the spell breaks, that will be farewell.
“Is it… not possible?”
Still offering her thighs as a pillow, Ariel climbed astride him. Her earnest face trembled in the eyes. It was not her usual shyness. She trembled with fear of whatever answer might come—and with hope as well. Hope that Bishop Lowen would come with her even to the Grand Cathedral.
Lowen gazed up at her in silence.
Another self inside him asked: Do you regret it? Will parting from this woman leave you wanting?
He did not know. It had been a very long time since he had thought so seriously about anyone. Yet he could not tell where this feeling had taken root. The most likely answer was respect for her as a Saintess—respect for that fragile yet self-sacrificing nobility of spirit. Or perhaps it was the sight of her growth. Growth is easy to say and hard to achieve. Genius or ordinary soul, growth always rests upon effort. Only the amount differs; without even the smallest effort, growth is impossible. The fruit of effort appears as growth, and those who watch that growth up close receive a spiritual jolt. Perhaps he took her so seriously because watching Ariel grow stirred something in him.
And if not that…
Could it be that I am in love with her?
This time the answer did not come easily. They had spent barely three months together. Time enough for deep affection to form—yet also time too short. They had shared ordinary days and weathered a few crises; that was all. Love blooming in such soil was the stuff of fairy-tale clichés. Or perhaps, as the saying goes, even rice cakes make affection—perhaps the handful of physical conversations had planted fondness. They had not truly tested their compatibility, yet when he took her from behind their bodies had fitted together as perfectly as lock and key. Still, Lowen was not so light a man that mere physical harmony would birth affection.
He asked himself again.
Do I love Ariel?
After long thought he shook his head inwardly. He had never truly loved a woman, yet he knew at least that what he felt now was not love. The emotion he held toward Ariel was…
Yes. Interest.
He was interested in her, and so he laughed at her antics and sometimes grew irritated by them.
Lowen suddenly seized her arms and pulled her down. His head was a tangle. Never before had a woman forced him into such tangled thoughts. Respect for the Saintess? A guardian’s desire to watch her grow? Romantic longing to hold her in his heart? Or simple interest in the person called Ariel? Choosing among them was difficult, yet if he answered as instinct led him, the answer was this:
He drew her into his arms and kissed her.
He did not answer.
No—he could not answer. Because Ariel could see lies, he had no idea which reply would be the honest one. Would it end in a year, or continue beyond? Clearly the answer “it ends in a year” was already decided. What right did a human failure have to remain at a Saintess’s side? Yet somewhere deep in his heart a hesitant voice whispered, Wait a little longer.
Yes. It had only been three months. More time remained than they had already spent. He could take his time thinking before answering that question.
“Haaum… chup… mm… mm…”
Ariel accepted his kiss as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She looped her arms around his neck and, lips still pressed to his, slipped her tongue through the slight parting. Her small tongue diligently stroked his rough one. As though a fire had been lit, she moved with sudden boldness.
“Slurp… churp… haah… mmph…”
She flicked her tongue over his lips, then pushed inside to coat every surface with her saliva.
“Nngh…!”
Lowen’s tongue stirred and coiled around hers.
“Pwah…!”
Ariel hastily broke the kiss.
“T-Today I’m the one who’s going to move…!”
Already her mouth was shiny with spit. She cupped both of his cheeks.
“I promised to praise you, so Bishop Lowen just has to lie still and receive his strokes, okay? Mwah.”
Without waiting for a reply she kissed him again. Excited little puffs of her breath brushed his face. The way her tiny tongue rolled about was clumsy and endearing all at once. While receiving her devoted kisses, Lowen kneaded her backside.
“Haahn.”
She let out a heated moan and rocked her hips. She had told him only to receive strokes, yet this, it seemed, was allowed. With both hands he worked the springy, plump flesh of her rear—sometimes gently kneading, sometimes squeezing hard as though to wring peach juice from it—ravaging her buttocks in every way he could invent.
“Pwah… hii… aaahn…”
Unable to hold her breath any longer, she pulled away and collapsed atop him, moaning sweetly. Simply having her rear fondled was enough to make her feel it. Panting, she kissed him once more. Her kisses grew more tenacious with every passing minute, as though she meant never to stop. For nearly half an hour they remained like that, lower bellies pressed together, lost in the kiss.
“Hii… haaahh…”
Ariel’s chest heaved. With every breath the soft mounds rose and fell. The areola of her right breast had slipped free of the fabric and gleamed under the moonlight.
“B-Bishop Lowen… excuse me a moment.”
She began undressing him. Because he wore a simple clerical habit rather than everyday clothes, the task was relatively easy. Once the upper half was gone, his firm torso was bare—clearly defined abs, solid pectorals. Ariel touched his upper body with careful fingers.
This isn’t the time for that!
She shook her head vigorously and drew a small glass bottle from her spatial pouch.
“What’s that?”
The bottle was half-filled with a clear liquid.
“I bought it from Cleia.”
She popped the cork and poured the contents over her breasts. The sticky fluid traced the curves of her round mounds, slipped into her cleavage, and ran down her soft belly all the way to her lower abdomen. Ariel spread the liquid evenly across her skin until her fair, powdery flesh began to shine with a smooth, glossy sheen.
Then she unfastened the bikini top that had been supporting her chest.
They swayed free.
The enormous breasts bounced and settled, hanging heavy. At that size one might expect them to lose their shape under their own weight, yet Ariel’s were perfect teardrops—enormous, beautiful teardrops.
“Haah… haaah…”
Right before his eyes she coated her areolae with more of the liquid. The pale-pink hills deepened to a richer rose; the slightly protruding nipples hardened and swelled.
“T-This time… I’ll stroke you with these.”
She presented her own breasts like an offering and lay down atop him once more.