Page 19 of The Prospect's Succubus
She raised up, used her other hand to guide me in. The first contact was like being branded—hot, wet, and so tight I almostlost it before we started. She slid down, slow, milking every inch, her eyes never leaving mine.
I tried to buck my hips, but she squeezed tighter, holding me in place.
“You like pain?” she asked, voice a velvet knife.
I grinned, teeth stained with my own blood. “Why do you think I’m here?”
She started to ride me, slow and controlled, her body rolling like smoke, every movement calculated to either torture or redeem. She let go of my wrists, raked her nails down my chest, and dug in at the waist, leaving claw marks that burned with every thrust.
She fucked like a calculus problem, all precision and inevitability, each solution more devastating than the last. The pleasure crested and broke, and I lost track of time, lost track of space—there was just the bed, and the blood, and the slick heat of her cunt bringing me right to the brink and holding me there.
When I tried to come, she bit my ear, hard, and whispered, “Not yet.”
She rode me harder, ass slapping down, tits bouncing in my face, sweat and perfume and the taste of sulfur chasing each other through the air. She leaned in, moaning against my neck, grinding down until she was shaking, her own pleasure mixing with the pain she poured into me.
Finally, right as I was about to spill, she slammed herself all the way down, held me there, and came around me, a spasm so violent I thought she’d tear me apart. I exploded, every muscle locked, shooting into her so hard I almost blacked out.When the wave broke, she collapsed onto my chest, her breath a hurricane. I held her, hands shaking, neither of us saying anything.
After a while, Jasmine rolled off, propped herself against the bedframe, and lit a cigarette. She offered me one, and I took it, letting the smoke fill my lungs and burn out the guilt.
“You still want to kill me?” she asked, her eyes half-lidded.
“Not tonight,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
She smiled, and for a second, I thought I saw the girl behind the monster. Maybe I’d never get her out of my head. Maybe I didn’t want to.
We passed the cigarette back and forth, and when she finally stubbed it out, she slid up next to me, curled her body against mine, and let me hold her until the lights faded out.
I thought about what Vin had said. That I needed to get ahead of it. But maybe, sometimes, the only way out was through.When I woke, she was already up, dress smoothed, hair perfect, not a trace of the night before except for the marks she’d left beneath my skin.
She leaned over the bed, brushed my cheek with the back of her hand. “You know the difference between Heaven and Hell?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“In Hell, you never get what you want. In Heaven, you find out it was never worth it.”
I laughed, a broken sound. “If that’s true, where does that leave us?”
She kissed me, soft this time. “On the edge,” she said, “where the fun is.”
She left, the door closing behind her, and I lay there, every muscle molten, watching the ceiling of the sex dungeon pulse and ripple with the afterglow. And then, with a single blink, I was lying in my bed, my cock covered in come and juices that weren’t mine. A wet dream? No. I glanced at the open window and the wet footprints on the floor.
She was literally fucking with me.
Jasmine
Ifollowed the stink of my own doom out past the edge of the city, where the road shed its asphalt skin and the trees crowded closer, too hungry for sunlight to ever grow pretty. The church hunched behind a chain-link fence that even the local taggers avoided, every stained-glass window busted or painted over. Someone had firebombed the rectory years ago, but the main building just shrugged it off and kept rotting in peace. On a good day, you’d call it abandoned. Tonight, it was a mausoleum, and my name was already on the wall.
I should’ve run. Every self-preservation instinct I had, from the original factory settings to the demonic patches, was screaming at me to turn around, light a cigarette, and watch the sunrise from somewhere safe and vodka-fueled. But the beacon was too strong. It clawed at my chest, hauled me closer, refused to let me take the long way around. It wasn’t a siren song. Sirens at least offer you a shot of dopamine before they drown you. Thiswas more like a subpoena from the universe. It was mandatory, final, and impossible to ignore.
I circled once, keeping to the shadows. The lot was a tangle of busted glass and last year’s leaves, the occasional whiff of cat piss hanging in the breeze. A single set of tire tracks cut through the dirt, the tread pattern familiar enough to make me hiss. Torch was here, probably had been for hours, and if I squinted, I could almost see him inside, stalking the nave in tight little loops like a big cat with a grudge. I didn’t want to walk in blind, but the closer I got, the more the walls vibrated. It was like trying to tiptoe through a bag full of tuning forks.
The front door was a plank of waterlogged oak, braced with a warped iron cross and a string of beads that had once been a rosary. I flinched when I touched it, and it burned my fingers worse than pepper spray. I bit down on the yelp, shook off the static, and shoved my way inside.
The air hit me like a slap. Not hot, not cold—just alive, every molecule humming with the memory of prayers and punishments. I swallowed hard, felt the sanctity crawl into my nose and make a little nest there, where it could gnaw on the base of my brain. I tried to breathe through my mouth. It didn’t help.
“Torch,” I said. “Quit fucking around and show yourself.”
Torch had gone full psycho with the prep. Chains everywhere, some looped around the pillars, some coiled up neat at the edge of the altar. Salt lines jagged across the aisle, thick enough to trip on if you weren’t careful. On the altar itself, he’d stacked an arsenal: knives, guns, a couple of glass vials with stoppers so black they looked like they were cut from obsidian. There was even a hand mirror, face down. Amateur hour, I thought, but the joke didn’t land. This wasn’t for show. He’d built this place into a bomb and was just waiting for me to walk across the tripwire.
