Chapter 1: Special Delivery - One Horny Succubus
The knock came just as Chris was zoning out over another unpaid bill, the sound sharp against the tired hum of his apartment. He opened the door to a vision of cheap fantasy: fishnets digging into thick thighs, a latex top straining over impossible curves, and plump lips wrapped around a lollipop. “Special delivery,” Lilith purred, pushing past him before he could speak, the scent of her perfume—jasmine and ozone—obliterating the stale air.
She placed the pizza box on his cluttered table with a practiced flick of her wrist, then leaned over it, her movements a slow, deliberate provocation. The short skirt rode up, revealing she wore no underwear, only the heavy, flared base of a huge glass buttplug nestled between her cheeks, letting him look right inside her. “Like what you see, baby?” she murmured, glancing back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with predatory amusement. Chris’s mouth went dry, all protest dying in his throat as she straightened and closed the distance between them in two clicks of her stiletto heels.
Her hand was hot through the thin cotton of his sweatpants, finding him already half-hard, a traitor to his own shock. “Let’s skip the bullshit, Chris,” she whispered, her lips against his neck, her other hand shoving him hard against the peeling wall. “My terms are simple. I get this,” she squeezed his cock through the fabric, making him gasp, “any way I want it, as often as I want it. You get a wire transfer every month that will zero out your debt and let you paint all those pretty little pictures in your head.” Her nails, glittering and sharp, traced the line of his jaw. “Say yes, and your dreams are bankrolled. Say no, and I walk out that door. But we both know you won’t say no.”
He wanted to shove her off, to be the kind of man who slammed the door on temptation, but his body was arching into her touch, a low groan escaping him as her fingers slipped under his waistband. Her grip was firm, a slick slide of her thumb over the head of his cock where pre-cum already beaded. “See?” she breathed, her voice a dark thrill in his ear. “Your body’s smarter than you are. It knows a good deal.”
His mind spun with the numbers—the crushing weight of student loans, the gallery rejection letters, the blank canvases he couldn’t afford to prime—all of it blurring under the visceral shock of her touch. “What’s the catch?” he managed to choke out, his hips bucking weakly against her palm.
“The catch is my pleasure, sweetheart,” Lilith said, withdrawing her hand and licking his precum from her fingers with a slow, obscene relish. “And I have very specific tastes.” Before he could process her words, she turned, presenting the magnificent shelf of her ass, and guided his trembling hand to the cold, smooth glass plug. “You start by pulling this out. Then you fuck this asshole raw, hard, and messy. You don’t stop until I tell you to. That’s the down payment.” She looked back, her human facade flickering for a second, eyes deepening into voids. “Do we have a contract?”
He tried to form the word ‘no’, but what came out was a strangled, “Yes,” as his fingers, slick with the lube from the plug, curled around its cold, ridged base. She sighed, a sound of pure, dark satisfaction, as he pulled it free, and he was inside her in one brutal, claiming thrust before he could think, his knees almost buckling at the impossible, searing heat of her. “Good boy,” she hissed, shoving back against him, taking him deeper as he fucked into the tight, clenching rhythm she demanded. “The payments… require collateral,” she panted, her voice fracturing into something guttural and ancient between his ragged thrusts. “You’ll get names… and you’ll get me their most private moments… their fear, their pleasure… every dirty secret filmed and sent to me.”
His rhythm stuttered, but she clamped down around him, a punishing, exquisite vice. “H-how?” he grunted, his hands digging into the soft, unbelievable flesh of her hips, the apartment air thick with the sounds of skin and sex.
“You’ll learn,” she moaned, arching her back, her human glamour flickering to reveal a flash of obsidian scale along her spine. “Phishing links, keyloggers, hidden cameras… make them trust you, then own them.”
“I can’t… I’m not a hacker,” he grunted, but his hips pistoned faster, betraying his words as the sheer, fucking vulgarity of it all drove him closer to the edge. She’ll help him, but she’ll also play with him, he realized, her nails digging into his thighs as she threw her head back, a string of filthy commands painting targets and consequences in the thick air. “I’ll give you their lives, you just hold the camera, sweet boy,” she promised.
Her words echoed in the heat between them, a contract sealed with every slick, driving thrust. Chris’s mind, fogged with lust and the promise of escape, could only latch onto the raw mechanics of it—the targets, the cameras, the transferring of secrets from their lives into hers. His “Yes” was less a word and more a guttural surrender torn from his chest as he fucked into her with a desperate, gathering rhythm. The climax ripped through him, a wave of shattering release that left him shuddering against her back, his come painting the inside of the tight channel she’d offered as down payment. As he slumped, spent, Lilith turned in his arms, her smile a razor in the dim light, and licked a stray bead of sweat from his lip. “The first name is Darren Kessler,” she whispered. “Your smug, trust-fund asshole of a landlord. He evicts single mothers for fun.”
She dropped to her knees without breaking eye contact, her plump lips already parting as she took him back into her mouth, her tongue working the still-sensitive head. “Darren’s got a thing for barely-legal girls on cam sites,” she said, the words muffled around his cock before pulling off with a wet pop, her features beginning to soften and blur, her eyes widening into a vapid, doll-like blue. “You’re going to catfish the shit out of him, get his webcam compromised.” Her jaw went slack as she deepthroated him again, a guttural moan vibrating against his shaft as her tits swelled almost comically large, straining against the latex. Chris could only fist her now-platinum blonde hair, a groan caught in his throat as she morphed into the perfect, empty-eyed fantasy, the contract thrumming between them like a live wire demanding another, deeper signature.
His hips jerked forward, fucking deep into that wet, sucking heat. Her new persona was perfect—a dumb, eager bimbo, all breathy whimpers and worshipful blue eyes rolling back as she choked on him. “Gonna cum for me, baby?” she slurred, her voice a high, silicone-doll pitch that somehow made everything filthier. “Cum in this throat, show me you’re mine.” The permission, delivered in that fake-fuck voice, was the final trigger. A raw shout tore from him as his orgasm slammed up his spine, and he emptied himself in hot, pulsing ropes down her willing gullet. She swallowed every drop, milking him with tight sucks until he was soft, until he was gasping and hollow. Before the shuddering aftershocks could even fade, she rose, her smile flickering back to its original, cruel intelligence. Her strong, manicured hand wrapped around his spent, sensitive dick. He flinched at the overstimulation, a weak protest forming on his lips. “No, wait—” She shoved his limp, dripping cock into her soaking pussy in one smooth, forceful stroke.
She shoved his limp, dripping cock into her soaking pussy in one smooth, forceful stroke, squeezing down around him with an obscene, pulsing tightness. “No rest for the wicked, baby,” she hissed, riding him hard, her massive tits swaying in his face. His whole body screamed, oversensitive and raw, but her internal muscles were a slick vice, milking him back to a half-hard state of tortured bliss. “Gonna get you ready for round two.”
She leaned down, those impossibly full lips brushing his ear. “Here’s how it works. You walk over to darling Darren next door, borrow his fucking Wi-Fi password with that lost-puppy look you’ve perfected. Get his phone for a second to ‘type it in’.” Her hips rolled, a slow, torturous grind that made him gasp. “The app’s already on mine. One tap, and his whole digital life belongs to me. His banking, his fetish site logins, his little hidden camera in the gym locker room.” She punctuated each sentence with a sharp, downward slam of her hips.
Chris’s head lolled back against the wall, a strangled moan escaping him. It was too much—the physical overload, the moral vertigo. “I can’t…”
“You can,” she purred, reaching between them to circle his aching balls with a sharp-nailed finger. “Because if you don’t, the first transfer bounces. The debt collectors get a new address. Your mom’s address.” She stilled, letting him feel the hot, clenching emptiness. “Now, are you my good boy, or are you a deadbeat son?”
Hatred and desire curdled in his gut. “I’m yours,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
“Prove it.” She dismounted, leaving him throbbing and empty against the wall. “On your knees. Finish what you started.”
Chris sank down, the cheap carpet gritty under his knees. The musky scent of their sex filled his nostrils. She spread her pussy lips for him, glistening and swollen. “Clean up your mess, artist. Then get to work.”
His tongue touched her, and she tangled her hands in his hair, guiding him with brutal pressure. He lapped at her, tasting himself mixed with her own dark, addictive nectar. She moaned, grinding against his face. “Deeper. Use your fucking tongue like you mean it.”
He obeyed, delving into her, making her back arch. Her thighs tightened around his head. “Yes… just like that. Now, make me cum. I want to feel your tongue when I shake apart.”
Chris redoubled his efforts, licking and sucking, driven by a confusing cocktail of shame, desperation, and a thrilling, dark obedience. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, her fingers twisting in his hair. She began to shudder, her internal muscles fluttering around his probing tongue. A high, keening cry tore from her throat as she came, wetness flooding his mouth.
She shoved him away, breathless. He knelt there, panting, her taste on his lips. Lilith looked down at him, her form shimmering back to its original, sharp elegance. She grabbed a used pizza napkin from the box and dropped it on his head.“Get dressed. You have a neighbor to visit.”
She watched him pull on his jeans with trembling hands. As he reached for the door, her voice stopped him, cold and clear. “The clock starts now, Chris. Don’t fuck it up.”
The hallway air was cold and smelled of disinfectant. He raised a fist to knock on Darren’s door, his heart a trapped bird in his ribcage.
He raised a fist to knock on Darren’s door, his heart a trapped bird in his ribcage. The cheap wood vibrated under his knuckles.
Silence.
Then a click, and the door opened a crack, held by a security chain. An eye, pale and startlingly blue, appraised him. It wasn’t Darren. “Yeah?” The voice was a woman’s, low and flat.
Chris faltered. “I, uh… is Darren home? It’s Chris, from next door.”
The blue eye blinked once, slowly. The door closed, the chain rattled, and then it swung fully open. The woman standing there was nothing like he’d expected. She was tall, almost his height, clad in simple black leggings and a tight grey tank top. She was muscular in a lean, functional way—ropey biceps, defined shoulders, a neck that spoke of discipline, not a gym addiction. Her hair was shaved close at the sides, the top a mess of dark blonde waves. She had a sharp, attractive face, but it was completely devoid of warmth. She looked like she’d been interrupted while lifting furniture.
“Darren’s dead,” she said, her tone as conversational as if stating the time. “Three months ago. Pancreatitis. I’m Daria. I own the building now.”
Chris’s brain short-circuited. Lilith’s intel was outdated. The target was gone. A wave of dizzying, irresponsible hope washed over him. Maybe the contract was void. Maybe he could go back to his apartment and vomit and pretend this never happened.
Daria’s eyes, cold as a glacier, scanned him. They lingered on his trembling hands, the sweat at his temples. “You need something?”
“Wi-Fi,” he blurted, the rehearsed line tumbling out automatically. “My router’s… it’s fried. Can I borrow your password? Just to send an urgent email for work. I’m a… graphic designer.” He forced a pathetic, apologetic smile.
She didn’t return it. She stared at him for a five-count that felt like an hour. Then she gave a minuscule shrug. “Fine.” She turned, walking into the apartment without checking if he followed. “Close the door.”
Her apartment was a mirror-layout of his, but any similarity ended there. It was stark, almost surgically clean. No pictures, no clutter, no personality. A single laptop glowed on a bare desk. A single, large suitcase stood in the corner, not unpacked. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and something else, metallic and faint.
“Password’s on the fridge,” she said, nodding toward the kitchenette. She didn’t move from the center of the living room, her arms crossed, watching him.
Chris scurried to the fridge. A single magnet held a slip of paper with a complex string of letters, numbers, and symbols. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, his fingers slick. “Just gotta type it in,” he mumbled, the lie sour in his mouth.
“Use mine,” Daria said. She hadn’t moved, but her voice cut through the room. She gestured to the laptop on the desk. “It’s already up. Faster.”
A trap. It had to be a trap. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But he saw the first debt collector’s notice in his mind’s eye, saw his mother’s confused, worried face. He walked to the desk on unsteady legs. The laptop screen showed a simple login screen. He glanced back at her. She just watched, that same impassive expression on her face.
He sat. His hands hovered over the keys. This was it. One tap, Lilith had said. The app was on his phone, already synced to her. All he had to do was get a connection, any connection, between his phone and this system. He pulled his phone from his pocket, pretending to compare the password.
“The network name is ‘SilentRunner94’,” Daria said, from directly behind him.
He jerked, nearly dropping the phone. He hadn’t heard her move. Her presence was a physical pressure at his back. “Right, yeah, got it,” he stammered. He tapped frantically at his phone, pulling up the app Lilith had force-installed. It was a plain icon, a black circle. He opened it, selected ‘Proximity Sync’. A loading bar appeared.
“Taking a while,” Daria observed. Her hand came to rest on the back of the office chair, her knuckles brushing his shoulder. They were scarred, those knuckles, a lattice of old, white lines.
“Yeah, my phone’s ancient,” he breathed, the words barely audible. The loading bar filled. A green checkmark flashed. Upload Complete. Target: Daria Kessler. Assets: Compromised.
He felt a nausea so profound he thought he’d vomit right there on her clean floor. He’d done it. He’d just handed a stranger—this severe, terrifying woman—over to a demon.
“All good?” she asked.
“All good,” he whispered, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he stood up, too fast. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Am I?” she said. That flat blue gaze held his. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw a flicker in it, a calculation that had nothing to do with wifi passwords. Then it was gone. “Don’t mention it.”
He practically ran for the door. As he fumbled with the handle, she spoke again, her voice stopping him cold.
“Chris.”
He froze, not turning.
“The walls in this building are thin. I hear things.” A pause. “You should be more careful about the company you keep.”
He didn’t wait for more. He fled into the hall, back to his own door, his breaths coming in ragged gulps. He slammed his door shut, locked it, and slid down to the floor, his head in his hands.
The apartment was dark, still smelling of sex and cheap perfume. He sat there for a long time, the cold linoleum seeping through his jeans. The silence was a physical weight.
It was broken by a slow, deliberate clapping from the bedroom doorway.
Lilith leaned against the frame, fully dressed now in an impossibly tailored black pantsuit, her hair up. She looked like a CEO or an assassin. The porn parody was gone, erased. “Congratulations. Your first harvest.”
Chris looked up, his eyes hollow. “The target was wrong. Darren’s dead. It’s a woman. Daria.”
Lilith’s painted lips curved into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “I know.”
The words hung in the air, vile and heavy. “You… knew?”
“Of course I knew, you naïve little bitch,” she purred, pushing off the frame and slinking towards him. “Darren was a useless glutton. His sister, though… Daria Kessler. Former Special Forces, suspected contractor for three letter agencies, current independent problem-solver. A hitwoman, Chris. A beautiful, efficient, amoral killer.” She stopped in front of him, looking down at his crumpled form. “Her digital life is a treasure trove of blackmail material, client lists, bank routing numbers for offshore holds. It’s so much juicier than her brother’s fetish for teenagers.”
Rage, hot and clean, cut through the self-pity. He surged to his feet. “You set me up to hack a fucking assassin? She could have killed me!”
“But she didn’t,” Lilith said calmly, reaching up to stroke his angry cheek. Her touch was ice. “Because you’re a sad, twitchy artist who smells of shame and cheap lager. You’re not a threat. You’re wallpaper. The perfect camouflage.” Her hand slid down to his chest, pressing over his hammering heart. “And now, we own her. Every weapon she’s ever bought, every life she’s ever taken, every secret buried in her files… it’s all mine. And you, my good boy, you delivered her.”
The reality of it collapsed onto him. He was complicit now, not just in petty betrayal, but in something vast and dark. He had just enslaved a killer to a demon.
“The first transfer hit your account ten seconds ago,” Lilith murmured, her body leaning into his. “Check your phone.”
He didn’t want to. He wanted to smash it. But his hand moved anyway, pulling the device from his pocket. The screen lit up with a banking notification. He opened the app.
The balance took his breath away. It was more money than he’d ever seen. It zeroed out his debt with a sickening, lavish surplus. The number was real. The freedom was real.
Lilith saw the surrender in his eyes. Her fingers went to the buttons of his jeans. “This is the part where you thank me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
He was hard again, a brutal, shameful response to the adrenaline crash and the terrifying power thrumming in the room. She pushed his jeans and boxers down his hips in one rough move, his cock springing free, already throbbing and eager. She turned him around, bending him over the back of his shitty couch, the coarse fabric scratching his stomach.
“You like that, don’t you?” she hissed, her hands spreading his ass cheeks. He felt the cool, slick head of the plug against him, the one from before, now freshly lubed. “You like being my little thief. My tool.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She pressed the thick glass against his tight ring of muscle and shoved.
Chris cried out, a sharp, broken sound as the intrusion burned, stretching him wide. It was a violation, a claiming. She worked it in slowly, mercilessly, until the flared base settled snug against him, a constant, filthy pressure. “Now you wear my mark,” she breathed, slapping his ass hard. The sting made him jump, making the plug shift inside him, a shockwave of pain and dizzying pleasure.
She spun him back around. Her pantsuit was open now, no blouse beneath, just her bare skin and the heavy, perfect weight of her breasts. She pushed him down onto the couch and straddled his lap, sinking onto him in one smooth, deep plunge, her wet cunt swallowing his cock to the hilt. She felt different—hotter, tighter, a frenzied energy vibrating through her.
“She’s got a job,” Lilith moaned, riding him with a hard, driving rhythm, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Daria. A termination contract for tomorrow night. A corporate whistleblower hiding in the City Heights Hotel.” Each word was punctuated by a slam of her hips. “You’re going to be there.”
“What? No—” The protest was choked off as she ground down on him, rotating her hips.
“You’re going to film it,” she growled, her eyes bleeding to solid black for a second. “You’re going to get close, and you’re going to capture it. The moment she ends a life. That footage… that’s pure, uncut power. I want it.” She leaned in, biting his lower lip until he tasted blood. “You’ll do it because you’re mine. And because I’ll ruin you if you don’t.”
Her pace became frantic, animalistic. The plug in his ass shifted with every movement, creating a maddening, double sensation. He was trapped between her brutal heat and the relentless pressure inside him.