July 2026 Smut Stroll Feature: Suburban Incubus
No rest for the wicked.
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As she approaches the Incubus Sorcerer Prince, she shouts defiantly, “The ladies of my party and I fear nothing of your lewd powers! You’ll never overcome us!”
He just gapes in confusion. “But...I wasn’t doing anything!”
Anne is not going to be so easily deceived.
“Nothing that comes from those shapely bow lips can be trusted! Shut your ears to his lies, sisters!”
The Prince scratches his head.
“Look, I just moved in last month! What am I supposed to have done?”
“You deny your lewd acts? Vera here saw you with her own eyes mowing the lawn. Shirtless!”
“It was a hot day!”
A murmur goes up around them.
“I’ll say-”
“-not just the mercury rising-”
“-mow my lawn, any time-”
“—”
That last one is just a wordless whimper, silenced by a glare from Anne.
“She watched you the whole afternoon, and not once did you stop for a drink, just paraded your finely toned body up and down your garden. If that’s not lewd I don’t know what is!”
He does not reply. He doesn’t have a chance to, as the other women begin airing their grievances.
The one at the front with both her knees in elastic joint support braces speaks first. “You run in lycra! Who even does that? I could see every. Single. Detail. You nearly killed me that day! With your…bulge, and your…arse…”
“What, really?” The woman next to Knee Braces looks perplexed. And intrigued. “Nearly killed you with his bulge?”
“Well, no, it’s just- I normally run just a couple of miles, but that day I followed you for a whole five. I thought I was going to have a heart attack by the end of it!”
A woman with freshly-permed hair pushes in front of her. Her makeup looks like it had taken hours to perfect in front of an online tutorial, with much rewinding and rewatching on 0.5x speed.
“On the very day you moved into this neighbourhood, I caught my husband fucking the cleaner! Now I’m going to have to find another husband!”
“And a new cleaner too, surely?” the Incubus Prince enquires mildly. “I might know-”
“Do you know how hard it is to find a good cleaner?”
Another angry voice joins the clamour.
“I just spent a fucking fortune on sex toys!”
“What’s that got to do with m-”
“My Paul hasn’t been able to satisfy me for years! And since you moved in I haven’t been able to think of anything else!”
A woman in a red sundress hobbles her way forward, resting her hand on Makeup’s shoulder for support.
“I’ve had to buy my husband some sex toys! He’s been wearing me out and it all started when you moved here. My pussy is so sore I can barely walk, and he’s been talking about the back door-”
There is a stunned silence as the other women process this.
“It’s got a bit squeaky after the last storm,” she says. “Just needs a bit of lube on its hinges is all-”
The Prince is smiling wearily.
“What are you smiling at, you pervert?” Anne snaps. “You’re a dirty demon who does yoga in the nude!”
A single wrinkle creases his brow. He’d moved to this neighbourhood for some peace and quiet, away from pesky adventurers who keep running up with swords swinging even when he offers them a cup of tea, but it would seem his mere presence has aroused some form of bloodlust - all right, just regular lust - in its sexually-frustrated residents.
How would they even know how he does his yoga unless they’d been looking in his windows? Sure, he doesn’t draw his curtains, and that’s somewhat on him. But in his defence, he doesn’t even have curtains! He’s just moved in last month! Do you know how long it takes to get good curtains made, with quality blackout lining and sound-absorbing fabric so he can have a lie in?
Even a Demon Duke of Depravity has a right to privacy, right?
Still, it wouldn’t do to offend his new neighbours.
He holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.
“Get behind me girls!” Anne shouts. “He’s going to try to molest us! That’s how these…these incubi get you! First comes the grabbing of the bosom, then the ravishing and the wailing. The moaning and the gnashing of teeth and the sucking...of...souls...”
There is a minor scuffle as the women try to elbow each other out of the way to be in front. Sore Vagina, horrified, is the only one scuttling backwards on her bottom, having been knocked to the ground by Knee Braces in the skirmish. Her knees are clamped firmly together, and she yelps as Makeup nearly treads on her hand.
The Prince looks at his hands, then hurriedly lowers them.
“He’s going to pull out his penis! Cover your eyes, girls!”
None of them do. Not even Sore Vagina.
He puts his hands behind his back.
“What are you hiding behind you?”
“Oh, I know what’s behind him,” says Knee Braces dreamily. “Five miles, I followed them. Those sculpted cheeks…”
Enough.
A silence falls over the group, who, to a woman, have their mouths wide open, but not a sound emerges. They couldn’t speak if they wanted to.
Their mouths feel stuffed. Completely occupied. With a penis. A very large, very invisible penis. Some make choking noises. It feels like they are each giving synchronised blowjobs to a phantom phallus. Organised, orderly oral, as it were.
Some of them start bobbing their heads up and down, even using their hands on the absent appendage, instinct and muscle memory taking over.
“That’s better,” the Prince says, sighing.
“Hey! What are you doing to them?”
Anne, stronger of will than the rest of her party, has managed to overcome the spell. Rather annoyingly, this also breaks the illusion for the others, who slowly come to their senses, massaging their jaws.
He snaps his fingers and tries something different. After all, he is not known as the Lord of Lurid Illusions for nothing.
Every woman gathered there sees in him the form of her ideal life partner.
Seven feet tall with broad shoulders and rippling forearms, a cock like a thickly-veined firehose and balls like a pair of ripe plums. Glistening skin the golden colour of warm honey, horns protruding from his head.
A stiff-backed butler, calm, cool, collected. He bows. “The laundry has been folded and put away, Madam, and the masseur is waiting in the parlour.” He sounds like Notting Hill era Hugh Grant.
A Bugatti, engine roaring, passenger door unfolding gracefully before the vehicle can even complete its controlled glide to a stop, the woman at the wheel looking over her Ray-Bans. “Get in,” she says, her voice slinkier than her red dress with its hip-high slit. She even smells expensive, of gently warmed leather seats, custom detailing, and unpronounceable fragrances.
A manicured, pedicured, coiffured, snow-skinned K-Pop idol, with luscious locks that bounce as he sweeps them out of his face with a calculated, practiced flick of his head. He has lashes for days, curled in the golden ratio over his smouldering, dark brown eyes. He is wearing nothing but a pair of checkered boxer shorts and an unbuttoned woman’s blouse, exposing abs that have seen a thousand crunches before breakfast, and one more for good luck.
A man with a dad bod, paunchy but firm, wearing just an apron, with a drink in one hand and a sandwich on a plate in the other, smiling with twinkling eyes as he presents them while on one knee. There is a paper umbrella in the drink, and he has a moustache that appears to have gained sentience and escaped from the early 1980s.
A cat, yawning and stretching before it curls up in the sun.
They blink, and he stands before them again as himself. Somehow, they feel far less antagonistic than they did a few moments ago.
They each make their confused excuses, then wander off home. There are some sudden urges that need attending to.
Anne stands her ground. The Prince of Perversion squints at her to get a closer look at this defiant diva. What with all the commotion, he hadn’t had a chance to get his contact lenses in.
“Hey, I know you!” he says. “You’re the woman who came round to try to convince me to join the Residents’ Association!”
“That’s right, and it’s not too late to change your mind!”
“Fifty pounds a year? In this economy? And you think I’m the soul-sucking demon?”
“There are many benefits to being a fully paid up member of the RA-”
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose. She watched him warily, ready to run.
Had he been shirtless the entire time? Vera had been right about that toned body. And he really does have what appears to be a very sizeable bulge. And shapely. Even through his very comfortable looking lounge pants, she can see its outline, swinging freely between his thighs.
He comes to a decision and holds his door open for her. “Why don’t you come in and remind me about those...benefits?”
This, she knows about. She steps confidently into his home. His lair.
“Oh, I love that wallpaper,” she says brightly.
He shuts the door behind her.
And that was the last anybody ever saw of Anne.
For a couple of hours.
All right, for the rest of the day, until he finally kicks her out that evening, just as the sun is dipping beneath the horizon; her hair in disarray, two buttons missing from her blouse and her skirt askew on her hips. The door slams shut on her pleading for just one more round.
She is, at least, clutching two crumpled twenties, a fiver issued by the Royal Bank of Scotland, and a handful of pound coins in her fist. The Residents’ Association always gets its dues.
Even if she has to watch him fisting his sofa to reach the last pound coin.
What do you think each of the visions represents? What would your vision be? Come join me in my free subscriber chat for book club style discussions, or stick your thoughts in the comments below!
To find other erotica writers and artists participating in the Smut Stroll, visit Ella Light’s directory:
Silken Mouli — this is genuinely one of the best comic pieces I've read in a long while, and I want to be specific about why.
The bathos is doing all the real work, and you never once let go of it. An Incubus Sorcerer Prince being ambushed over lawn-mowing, Residents' Association dues, and a squeaky back door is a joke that could collapse in a dozen ways, and it never does — you keep escalating the domestic-mundane register right alongside the supernatural-erotic one, so the two stay in perfect, ridiculous tension all the way to "in this economy?" That's much harder to sustain than it looks.
The chorus of women is a small masterclass in comic characterisation through tag and rhythm alone — Knee Braces, Sore Vagina, the freshly-permed cleaner-widow — each one distinguishable purely by preoccupation and cadence, no physical description doing the lifting. And "organised, orderly oral, as it were" is the kind of line that tells me you trust your reader to catch a joke without you underlining it.
The illusion catalogue near the end is the piece's best stretch — Bugatti woman, the Hugh-Grant butler, the K-pop idol, dad-bod-with-a-sandwich, and then the cat. The cat is the punchline of the whole sequence, and putting it last, undercutting the fantasy escalation with something completely banal, is exactly the right comic instinct.
And the ending — Anne walking out with a fiver from the Royal Bank of Scotland and a fistful of pound coins — is perfect. It's the joke the whole piece has been building toward: the Prince turning the tables from harassed to transactional, and doing it with the same deadpan restraint he's had from the first page.
This is farce done with real control, not just enthusiasm, and it shows. More please.
Very, very, funny tale. The drawing of the cat is the clincher for a third very.