by Yamila Abraham and Le Peruggine


PUBLISHED BY: Yaoi Press The Incubus and the Woodcutter Copyright © 2010 Yaoi Press

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Figaru woke up from his hibernation horny and amnesiac. He concentrated while working four claws through his dense black hair to scratch. Where was he? Oh yes--this is the cellar he‟d dug for his forest house. There was a brook nearby, or had been, 13 years ago when he went to sleep. Why did he go to sleep? An echo of grief struck him before the memory. A wife. A step-daughter. The first was old when he married her. They had a blissful nine years before a weak heart took her. He stayed with the daughter another 11 years. He was a chaste father to her, nothing more. He went to sleep away his anguish after she died of illness. Figaru climbed from the cellar. His wooden shack still stood, but he saw cracks

of sunlight breaking through the walls and part of the ceiling. He liked to be sure his dwelling was sound before taking a mate. At least he could still hear the gurgle of the brook. His squinted against the sunlight once he stepped outside. The loincloth that draped to above his knees was tattered. He ripped a pinecone from the nearest bow to work some demon magic on it. This took more energy than he anticipated. He needed to find a mate. Figaru waded into the shallow brook and used his fleshy tail to splash water over him. A gentle buzz on his chest made him pause. He was sensing the aura of a young strong mortal half a mile away. He couldn‟t tell which gender His broad black hooves were sloshing out of the brook toward the source despite knowing it was a bad idea. The house isn’t ready. You’re not ready. What if it’s a demon trap? His incubus inclination was like the yank of a dog‟s leash. He‟d start having tremors in a few days if he didn‟t have sex. He already ached for a mortal he hadn‟t seen yet. He slowed when he saw the mortal‟s house. It wasn‟t a colony. He could sense the full settlement, but it was much further off. This human was on the fringe for some reason. Figaru heard a hard echoing ax chop. Definitely a strong mortal. He got close enough to peer through a veil of tree limbs. The demon‟s full lips parted just slightly. The man was broad-shouldered, tall, bristling with compact muscles. He wore a laborer‟s wrap that went around his hips and

between his legs. The rest of his glistening body was exposed.

He was at an age where he should have a family, but there was no trace of this. The man was tall enough to be considered gangly. He had a homely face (Figaru found his visage charming) but his third failing was what made him an outcast. He had to be from a low caste. Figaru suspected Burakumin, and there was no Buraku ghetto nearby last he‟d known. A drought or plague probably displaced him into the area years ago. Figaru conjured a vivid history for him as he stared.

The man ceased his work the entire time Figaru watched him. He was bent forward slightly with his hand on his stomach and a confused expression. Of course, the man was being overwhelmed by Figaru‟s tremendous demonic aura. All mortals could sense him, no matter their spiritual powers. Figaru‟s demigod essence twisted the air.

The woodcutter looked in his direction. Figaru stepped into clear view, since lurking now would only hinder his courtship. The man yelped in horror. He brandished the ax with knuckle-white fists. “G-get

away!” Figaru gave a feigned expression of remorse, and fled. He got far enough away to be sure that the man could no longer sense him. Courting mortals was a process. Fear was the first part to deal with. Hopefully curiosity would outweigh it next time so Figaru could talk to him. There was nothing more he dare try today. He returned to his shack filled with purpose. Fortify the house. Freshen the bed. Compose a gift for him. First he had to muck his damn hooves because walking straight from the brook caked them with forest litter. The act made him aware of his demonic features. He was pleased with his form, but recognized its disadvantages. He imagined how the man saw him. The long, fat, tapered tail. The giant hooves. The horns. The brown flesh and long black lamb‟s wool hair--which mortals of his homeland shared, but were an anomaly here. Then there was his massive size. Small wraith incubus could seduce a virgin on the first introduction. His kind had to prove they weren‟t a danger. He waited until late afternoon the next day to go back. Hearing ax chops encouraged him. As did sensing no other mortals about. He hadn‟t sought protection. He let his aura permeate the man‟s senses, and then he came into a clearing between the pine trees. The man had a wide-eyed look of distress, but was taking time to have a good look at him. Figaru kept still. “What do you want?” the woodcutter said. He spoke in the most pleasant tone the demonic tremors in his deep voice would

allow. “Just to look at you. You‟re beautiful.” The woodcutter‟s brow twitched. Figaru correctly surmised the words would strike a chord. “Are you making fun of me?” His voice was quavering a little. Not from fear, but emotion. Figaru lowered his eyelids and shook his head. “No. You‟re a handsome mortal.” “I—I know what I look like,” the woodcutter said. (With the first word he seemed to remember to be afraid). “I‟m „Ichiro the Lonesome.‟ Too ugly and stupid to ever have a wife. That‟s what all the villagers say about me.” Things were worse than Figaru imagined. “How cruel,” he said. There was building anticipation along with the sympathy he felt. They could have such a perfect union. Ichiro‟s face began to flush as though tears were coming. He concentrated on the grass below his chopping easel. “Yes they‟re cruel. They‟re worse than cruel. I never did any wrong to them. I never caused trouble. Why do they get to hurt me? I just want to live my life.” Figaru took out his gift. A clay bowl full of clear icy water. He held it before him in both palms. “This is cold water from the mountain.” Figaru stepped forward. Ichiro thrust his ax in front of him with a burst of panic. “Stay back!”

Figaru took only a few steps more. He set the bowl down on the grass and retreated several paces. He sat on the ground to appear less threatening. “You work hard. Your must be thirsty.” Ichiro considered the bowl too short a time before walking to it. There was thirst, Figaru imagined, but also desperation for companionship. The demon knew Ichiro already wanted for him not to be evil, and for him not to go away. He was indeed „Ichiro the Lonesome.‟ Ichiro retreated behind his easel after he gathered the bowl. “How do I know it‟s not poison?” “I don‟t want to hurt you,” Figaru said. Ichiro‟s question was the barest minimum of resistance to accepting the gift. He

was already downing the water. If Figaru‟s needs weren‟t so urgent he could dance this way for a season or more, slowly gaining trust. Instead he was creeping on the grass toward Ichiro while his view was blocked by the bowl. Figaru grabbed his leg. Ichiro jolted, dropping the bowl. “What are you--? Get away!” Figaru stood quickly while moving his hold from Ichiro‟s leg to around his hips. Ichiro was struggling. Figaru kept his voice peaceful. “Please let me feel your skin.”

“No!” Ichiro said. His muscles were taught, but he was no longer fighting. He looked into the demon‟s large black eyes agape.

He sought reassurance, and as always, Figaru was the epitome of calm. He rubbed Ichiro where his shoulder met his neck with a deft hand. He kept eye contact, while granting Ichiro a soft smile. “I won‟t hurt you.” Ichiro looked away from him, still wary. Figaru used both hands to massage close to his neck. His question came after such a long silence it seemed inane. “What are you doing?”

“Soothing your muscles. You must ache. Here.” Figaru pushed him forward so that he was leaning on the log across the easel. He worked his fingers over toned flesh until Ichiro‟s muscles assuaged. There was the sound of a drawn out sigh. When Ichiro spoke his voice sounded sleepy. “What kind of demon are you?”

“My name is Figaru. I‟m an incubus.” “What‟s that?” “I need to touch handsome people like you to be happy.” Figaru let one hand slide in front. He rubbed over Ichiro‟s nipple without focusing on it. Ichiro grunted. “Do you like it?” “Yes, but…” A minute more of silence passed. Figaru leaned forward to see that Ichiro had closed his eyes and was breathing through parted lips. Physical contact was another need he‟d likely been starved of. Figaru let his other hand glide in front, this time over Ichiro‟s belly. This jostled him. Figaru was now embracing him from behind. He worked the tightly knitted muscles of his torso until he was again at ease. “Let me comfort you,” Figaru said. “Mm.” Figaru dove his hand down the front of Ichiro‟s wrap and grabbed his cock. “Ahh! No!” He seized Figaru‟s wrist. Read the full 36 page story for only $1.50 at Check out more Hot Illustrated Yaoi Erotica at: This story originally appeared in the Winter Demon yaoi graphic novel series available here: