Chapter 20: Next Target
Theo moved through the next few days in a daze. His body felt like it had been run through a industrial laundry press—achy, tender, and strangely hollow. A permanent, low-grade exhaustion hummed in his bones. Giana’s knowing smile and the new, lingering way she touched his arm in the hallway were a constant, confusing echo in his mind. So was the memory of Veronica’s crushing weight and Lily’s invasive hands. His dorm room, even after airing out, seemed to hold the ghost of their sweat and sex in its fibers.
“You look like shit, battery,” Lily remarked from where she was sprawled on his bed, idly scrolling through his phone. She hadn’t left. Veronica had, after a final, sloppy kiss that tasted of possession, but Lily had simply declared the dorm her new base of operations. She was invisible to everyone but him, a lazy, horny poltergeist in fishnets.
“I have an advisor meeting,” Theo mumbled, buttoning a marginally clean shirt. His hands shook. “Ms. Sparks. I’m… I’m behind on my class schedule.”
Lily’s blue eyes flicked up, sharp with instant interest. “The milf advisor? The blonde one with the shelf-ass and the pillow lips?”
“Don’t call her that,” Theo said weakly, knowing it was futile.
“Veronica scoped her out yesterday. Said she was wound tighter than a nun’s asshole.” A wicked grin spread across Lily’s face. “Mom had an idea.”
Theo froze. “What idea?”
“Just a little helper in her coffee. A little… perspective shift.” Lily sat up, her form shimmering and then vanishing entirely. Her voice came from right beside his ear, a cool breath on his skin. “Don’t worry. We’ll be right there. This’ll be fun.”
Professor Bridgette Sparks’ office was a sanctuary of orderly academia. Books stood straight on polished shelves, degrees hung in symmetrical frames, and the air smelled of lemon disinfectant and old paper. Bridgette herself was the portrait of professional grace: a fitted cream blouse, a knee-length pencil skirt, her blonde hair in a severe but elegant bun. Her lips, full and artificially smooth, were set in a polite, neutral line.
“Theodore, come in,” she said, her voice crisp. “Close the door, please. Let’s see about these schedule conflicts.”
Theo sat on the hard wooden chair opposite her expansive desk, clutching his folder like a shield. He tried to focus on her words about credit distribution and prerequisite waivers, but his attention kept snagging on small details. The way she’d shifted in her seat more than usual. The faint sheen of sweat at her temple. The way her fingers, tipped with pristine nude polish, drummed a restless rhythm on her desk blotter.
“The core curriculum requires a lab science,” she was saying, but her gaze drifted to the window. “A lab… yes.” She blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision. “Excuse me. It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it?”
Before Theo could answer, she stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly. She went to the window and with a sharp tug, closed the blinds, plunging the room into soft, shadowy gloom. Then she went to the other window, and the next, until the office was a dim, closed box.
“There,” she breathed, turning back to him. The professional mask was slipping. A flush was creeping up her chest. “Too much… distraction. From the light.”
She walked back to her desk, but didn’t sit. She leaned against it, right in front of him, her hips cocked. The pencil skirt pulled taut. “Now, where were we?”
“Lab science,” Theo squeaked.
“Right.” Her eyes weren’t on his papers. They were on him, roaming his lanky frame with a hungry, unfocused intensity. “You know, Theodore… discipline is so important. Structure.” She bit her lower lip, a grotesque parody of thoughtfulness. “But sometimes… sometimes one needs help staying on track. Don’t you think?”
“I… I guess?”
“I need help staying on track right now,” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, turning husky. Her hand went to the top button of her blouse, fumbling it open. Then the next. A lacy black bra came into view, straining over impressive curves. “I’m feeling very… distracted.”
Theo’s mind screamed. This was wrong. This was a trap. He could feel a presence in the room, a chilling, mischievous weight—Lily, watching.
Bridgette’s hand snaked out, closing over his on the armrest. Her skin was fever-hot. “You seem like a very diligent young man. Help me focus, Theodore.”
She used her grip to pull him up. He rose, numb, a puppet. With her other hand, she swept everything off her desk—planner, pen set, a framed photo of a cat—with a crashing clatter. The sound was violently loud in the small room.
“On your knees,” she commanded, but the command was undercut by a desperate, trembling need.
“Ms. Sparks, I don’t—”
“Now!” The word was a guttural snarl. The prim advisor was gone, eroded by the infernal aphrodisiac coursing through her veins. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown black.
Theo sank to his knees on the industrial carpet. He was trembling worse than she was.
Bridgette hiked her skirt up, revealing sheer black stockings clipped to a garter belt. No panties. The neat, blonde triangle of hair was glistening, wet. The musky, salty scent of her arousal, thick and urgent, flooded Theo’s senses. It was different from the succubi’s—human, but twisted by the same predatory magic.
“Lick,” she ordered, her hands tangling in his hair. “Keep your advisor on task. Be a good… good student.”
He was trapped. The heat of her body radiated against his face. The scent was overpowering. He could hear Lily’s silent, delighted laughter in his head.
He leaned forward.
The moment his tongue made contact, Bridgette jerked as if electrocuted. A raw, ragged cry tore from her throat. “Yes! Oh, God, yes! That’s… that’s part of the curriculum!”
Theo worked mechanically, his mind a blank static. Her taste was complex—soap, salt, and underneath, a faint, coppery hint of the demonic taint. She ground herself against his mouth, her moans becoming louder, less formed. Her professional composure was in shreds on the floor with her office supplies.
“Deeper,” she panted, wrenching his head closer. “You need to… to apply yourself! You’re barely passing!”
He could feel her thighs beginning to shake. Her cries hit a sharp, rising pitch. Then she froze, her whole body locking into a taut arch. A choked, silent scream was followed by a gushing flood against his mouth and chin as her climax ripped through her. She sagged against the desk, panting like a marathon runner.
Theo pulled back, wiping his face. Shock and revulsion and a traitorous, reluctant thrill churned in his gut.
Bridgette’s eyes opened. They were different. The hunger was still there, but it had mutated, crystallized into something darker, needier. She looked down at him, at his messy face, and a pout formed on her inflated lips.
“I’ve been… very naughty,” she whispered, her voice a childish, sultry parody. “A naughty, naughty milf. I didn’t do my paperwork. I touched myself thinking about… about student-teacher conferences.”
She sank to her own knees in front of him, her hands going to his belt. “Naughty girls need to be punished, don’t they, Theodore?” She looked up at him, her expression a grotesque blend of lust and mock-innocence. “Don’t they… Daddy?”
The word, in that context, in this office, hit Theo like a physical blow. He recoiled, but the desk was at his back.
“I need to be taught a lesson,” Bridgette breathed, yanking his pants and boxers down. His body, conditioned and betrayed, responded instantly to the cool air and her intent. He was fully hard in her hot, manicured hand. “A hard lesson. From a strict… Daddy.”
She didn’t wait. She took him into her mouth, those full silicone lips stretching obscenely around his girth. She gagged immediately, tears springing to her eyes, but she forced herself deeper, a desperate, sloppy rhythm that was more penance than pleasure. Her muffled moans vibrated through him.
Theo’s head thumped back against the desk. He stared at the acoustic tile ceiling, a silent scream building in his chest. He could feel it now, clearly—the foreign magic pulsing in the room, coiling around Bridgette, twisting her prim professionalism into this deranged, salacious fantasy. It felt like Lily’s magic, but sharper, more cynical. Veronica’s touch.
Bridgette popped off him with a wet, ragged gasp, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip. “Please, Daddy,” she whimpered, scrambling onto the desk on her hands and knees, presenting her glistening, offered body to him. Her skirt was rucked around her waist, her blouse hanging open. “Punish your naughty advisor. Fuck the lesson into me. I’ve been so bad.”
The door to the office, which Theo had closed, let out a soft click as the lock engaged by itself.
A chill, invisible hand—Lily’s—pushed between Theo’s shoulder blades, urging him forward.
He was losing control. The situation had already snapped, and he was just a piece of debris in the torrent. The line between victim and participant dissolved in the face of her desperate, magic-warped begging and the invisible succubus at his back.
With a groan that was half despair, half unleashed instinct, he positioned himself. He placed a trembling hand on the small of Bridgette Sparks’ back, feeling the fine wool of her skirt under his palm, and pushed into the wet, clutching heat of her.
Her shriek of “Yes!” was muffled by the wood of her own desk.