I didn’t know how much time passed: minutes, hours. So entranced by this being was I that the scene has seemingly morphed in front of my eyes. Scarcely did I believe it to be real.
The column, once rigid and unyielding, began to pulse. Undulates. It’s many tendrils now seemed engorged, as though blood were seething into them. Does it respond to the Succubus? Is this ceremonial worship going between both? A writhing mass of tentacles inched closer to her, almost shuddering, yearning to envelope her. The slimy liquid, as from the carved tentacles from the door, began to secrete, drip from their tips, coating her.
Perhaps the Succubus anticipated this. The purpose of her adorning rings become clear as this ritual began and she knelt down. A cold length of chain now connected her to loops of unforgiving iron affixed to the floor. I did not know the intention she held. At first, it appeared that the iron length meant to keep her planted, as a sacrifice of sorts. Yet as I watched the interaction, I saw it more as an aid. This being, so fully one with her sensuality, bound herself to the floor for fear of missing a moment of ecstasy.
I was horrified yet transfixed. My heart racing as I watched this unfold, a silent voyeur to this holy moment. The lengths of inky blackness from this column undulated around her body, emanating from a central point within, as though a wave pulsed through its entirety. No longer do I believe this to be a simple column of this cathedral. Truly this is some living entity. She becomes one with it, morphed and consumed. Not as a worshipper to a deity but as one lover to another.
The tendrils descended with painful slowness over her trembling body. As though to bring the symphony to crescendo, a blinding ray of moonlight penetrated the upper stain-glass of the cathedral, bathing the ritual in dappled light. As quickly as it began, so it faded. Her body gone, absorbed within the faceless deity. And I left alone, breathless and trembling in a cold sweat.