Page 28 of The Prospect's Succubus
She came to with a start, not gentle, not slow. She writhed back onto me, her voice a rough tangle of vowels and curses as she begged for more. I let her take the lead, grinding and rolling, trying to milk every drop until my balls ached from the pressure. It was like wrestling with an eel made of silk and teeth, but I couldn’t get enough of it. She twisted around, finally facing me, and kissed me so hard our teeth clacked.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” she hissed, wrapping her legs around my waist and hauling me in for another round. The tunnel walls vibrated with every impact. She clawed my shoulders, drew blood, mixed it with her own, and started licking it off like a wild animal. Her tongue was cold and hot inturns; she bit my neck, sucked at the wound, then marked me again across the jawline. We were covered in blood, and it was hot as fucking Hell.
It wasn’t pain, not really. I’d burned for years, lived with so much flame that anything less than immolation just read as stimulation. I slammed harder, grabbed her ass, and lifted her off by the hips, driving her against the wall until my vision blurred at the edges. The cold of the cinderblock and the heat of her skin made a circuit, a fucking live wire, and every time she clenched down, I saw things—her memories, my own, all of it tangled into a fever dream I never wanted to wake up from.
And then I came, still watching the memories race across her mind.
She pushed me away and fell into a pile of stuffed animals that would soon be carried away by some child at the ring toss, or balloon and dart game.
“Eat me,” she said, her face still streaked with blood.
I slid down her body, catching a glimpse of my own come appearing between her pussy lips, her cunt soaked and glistening. Her thighs trembled around my ears, already oversensitized from the fuck, but she spread wider anyway, heels hooked over my shoulders with a desperation that threatened to salt the earth. I would have laughed, if my mouth wasn’t pressed to her cunt, my tongue catching every slick drip of her, every tremor she couldn’t control. The taste was riot—blood, come, something unearthly and sweet like rotting apples at the bottom of a haunted orchard. For the first time, I wanted to drown in it. For the first time, I thought maybe Hell sent her up not to collect souls, but to make sure I never wanted another taste again.
Jasmine’s hand locked into my hair, a fist at the roots hard enough to make my scalp burn. She didn’t guide—she wrenched, dragging my face harder into her, and I let her, let her grind the full weight of herself down until my nose was pressed into herclit and the rest of her smeared slick and heat across my chin. I flicked my tongue, slow, then fast, then sucked until her hips shivered so hard I thought we’d dislodge a brick. She let out a gasp, then bit it off, as if even now she was trying to maintain the illusion of control.
She came, eventually, with a violence I hadn’t seen in any human, like the orgasm was trying to kill her from the inside out. Her legs locked around my skull, and I felt the full sinew of her body clenching, fighting, then giving in, every muscle fiber tuned to the hot pulse of her cunt. When she loosened, it was as if her bones had melted; she fell back, hair a black halo on the heap of cheap, dusty plush.
My face was slick, my breath coming out in white plumes. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and grinned up at her, savoring the maskless, full-body shudder that still rippled through her. Jasmine tilted her head, eyes almost too wide, the pupils blown in the low light. She looked at me with a hunger that was half murder and half mercy.
The blood bond went wild, a feedback loop of need and memory. I’d always thought of her as a predator, but in that moment, she was the one trembling under my hands. If she could have purred, she would have. Instead, she just reached, shaky, pulling me up to her by the front of my shirt until our mouths mashed together, wet and raw and tasting of everything we’d spilled.
When we’d had enough and talked through a plan for the following day, we kissed again and then parted ways.
***
The next night came too soon. I’d barely slept. Instead I did what I always did before a job that could end me. I cleaned my guns,re-inked the runes on my arms, and took a long look at the scars that never healed.
They ran from my wrists to my elbows, sometimes visible through the skin, sometimes just a memory of fire and pain. They weren’t from bullets, or blades, or anything you could find in the Above. They were souvenirs from Hell, branded on me by things that didn’t need to eat, but did it anyway. Most days, I covered them with sleeves, out of respect for people who didn’t want to see what happens when you lose to a demon. Tonight, I rolled them up on purpose. I wanted her to see.
The midway was emptier than last time, if that was possible. Most of the rides had been stripped for parts or left to rust, the only color coming from a handful of deflated balloons snagged on the wires. I walked slow, hands in my pockets, feeling every step echo back from the dead pavement.
Jasmine was already waiting. She leaned against the funhouse wall, head bowed, eyes lost in the swirl of her own hair. When she looked up, I almost didn’t recognize her. She’d dropped the armor, the attitude, even the stilettos. She wore sneakers now, jeans and a T-shirt with a faded logo. She looked like any girl you might pass on the street and never notice.
“Hey,” I said, careful not to spook her.
She didn’t move. “You came.”
“I always do.”
She smiled, just a little. “I thought maybe last night was it. You know, the big confession. The ending.”
“It’s never the ending,” I said. “Not for people like us.”
She looked at my arms, at the blue-white marks that glowed faint in the sodium light. “You’re not hiding anymore?”
I shook my head. “What’s the point?”
She stared, fascinated and horrified. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. But it reminds me I made it out.” I held out a wrist, palm up. The scar pulsed under my skin, alive and restless. “You can touch, if you want.”
Jasmine hesitated. Her hands hovered an inch above mine, fingers trembling. I could see the calculation in her eyes—what did it mean to touch a man who was half monster, half man, and maybe more honest than anyone she’d ever met?
She traced the edge of the nearest scar, just a feather-light brush. Instead of pain, it sent a shiver up my arm. I expected it to burn, to sting, to trigger the old reflexes. Instead, her touch was cool, almost soothing. Like menthol after a bad sunburn.
She went a little bolder, running the pads of her fingers along the grooves. “You really went to Hell?”
I nodded. “And back. But I left a piece behind.”
