This is not your typical incubus story. But then, this story did not come about in a typical way. I normally see a story in my mind, flesh it out as it plays through my mind several times, and then write it out.

This story would not do that. It remained jumbled and kept going down what were apparently dead ends. Then I realized that what I was seeing in my mind was two stories overlaid on top of each other. They were almost the same, but they were different. One was an erotic romance story about a young woman and her imaginary friend. The other was non-erotic, but perhaps a romance story about a young woman and her imaginary friend. They begin exactly the same, but take very different paths as they develop.

This story is the erotic romance. I called the young woman Cindy in this version. The non-erotic version is Mindy’s Imaginary Friend. It is the story of an imaginary friend who is not so imaginary.

Because these stories are twins of the same muse, I am posting them at the same time, but separately. I would recommend that you read them both.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Cindy Beckman lay quietly in bed waiting. She knew that he would soon be here. As she looked out into the total blackness of her bedroom, her mind went back to the very first time that she had seen him appear in her room.

She was only seven. She didn’t know how old he was then, or if, in fact, age had any meaning for him. In those days, he was just a small boy who appeared to be her same age. He would bring her toys for them to play with, or he would take her to marvelous places that she had never seen before except in videos or read about in books.

He told her that his name was Teman. He had dark hair and very dark eyes and looked almost Oriental. But his eyes were not what Cindy typically thought of for a person from China or Japan or even Korea. Perhaps he was from one of the Pacific islands. It really didn’t matter. Where he was from didn’t explain how he was able to come into her bedroom each night.

Sometime in the second week after Teman first appeared, she told her parents about him. They immediately called the police. After a thorough investigation by detectives and a conversation with two social workers and a psychologist, it was decided that he existed only in Cindy’s mind.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” the psychologist told her sweetly. “Many children have imaginary friends who fill a need in their lives.” The woman then softly covered Cindy’s hands with her own and said, “Your parents and I have decided that you will see me once a week for a while so we can work through more constructive ways to fulfill the needs in your life.”

Cindy went to therapy for five years. It was mostly playing with special toys and talking about anything in her life that bothered her. Cindy learned a lot from those sessions. Primarily, she learned how to lie convincingly to the psychologist and her parents about the mysterious boy who visited her room each night.

Teman continued to come to see her almost every night. Sometimes he would leave one of the small toys behind as a gift to her. Sometimes she would give him one of her drawings and he would take it with him. She was sure that he was real. She was sure that he was really in her room. But whenever the doctor or her parents asked about him, she would say, “He doesn’t visit me anymore.”

The last time Cindy ever mentioned Teman to anyone was when her mother noticed a small, home-made doll on her shelf.