Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus
Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus
Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus
Ebook415 pages6 hours

Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

4.5/5

()

Read preview

About this ebook

In a remote chateau in Tartarus, a fallen angel learns the dark succubus arts. An intimate and forbidden relationship grows between her and her elder married mistress. She searches for truth and love in her life of wickedness and addiction.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 20, 2015
ISBN9780996924337
Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus
Author

Jacquotte Fox Kline

Jacquotte was an avid reader as a child. Her favorite books were Tolkien's Hobbit and Lord of the Rings trilogy, which she finished at the age of eight. As a teenager, she created adventure stories for high fantasy role-playing games.She was a high school spelling champion and took a few writing classes in college, but she didn't write real fiction until joining an online group in her early 30s. She learned oodles in the group, honed her skills, wrote countless critiques, and won a few contests.Jacquotte was particularly influenced by Jack Bickham, a brilliant American professor and writer of westerns (The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes [1972], Scene & Structure: How to construct fiction with scene-by-scene flow, logic and readability [1993]).She went on to publish nine short stories in the genres of horror and erotic: five in various paying publications and four self-published. She then took 15 years to write her five epic novels in the vein of J.R.R. Tolkien: the Down Deep trilogy and two supporting one-offs.The novels were all written simultaneously to create the richest, most consistent experience for the reader.

Read more from Jacquotte Fox Kline

Related to Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus

Related ebooks

Related articles

Reviews for Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus

Rating: 4.4 out of 5 stars
4.5/5

5 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Secret Diary Of A Young Succubus - Jacquotte Fox Kline

    Chapter 1. The Brown-Eyed Boy

    "In the Lethe’s low alluviums the black Tartarus poppies bloom. To soothe memories of Heaven, they yield a desirable fruit."

    ~ from Des Anges Et Leurs Plaisirs by Mss. Amb. Inannah

    Once upon a time, I was born into a dark world, and I could remember nothing, not even who I was. I had no idea why. Someone was there to help me. She held my hand through those days of doubt and fear. She was Mistress Inannah—a wealthy and important succubus. I was a fallen angel, a former resident of Heaven who had been reborn and transformed.

    I believed Inannah’s story. I sat for hours at the marble-topped vanity in my bedchamber in northern Tartarus, angling my armchair to see my back in the gilt-framed mirror. The twin scars along my shoulder blades were pink and tender. The severing of my wings seemed recent from all appearances, but there was a terrifying emptiness where my memories needed to be.

    According to Inannah, I’d rebelled from Heaven. I’d betrayed Lord Deus and the archangels. I’d weighted my angel body and jumped into the lower realms. I’d splashed down into the Sea of Desire.

    Inannah had waited for me to fall. She’d dragged my unconscious body from the brackish waves near the cool effluvium of the river Styx. She’d slapped me awake with her benevolent hands and spirited me away from any guardian angels who might have given chase.

    Inannah was one of Hell’s most illustrious ambassadors. According to her, she’d been my contact during my spying activities. I’d been a respectable female angel—a precocious junior member of an interior ministry. I’d known some of Heaven’s secrets. The information that I’d delivered had helped turned the tables in the battle of the ages. The forces of Hell, for the first time in centuries, were winning the war over territory and souls.

    The powers of Hell had been pleased with my defection. Due to the black nectar that I was imbibing, however, I remembered nothing of the transformation ceremony where Lady Lilith herself, queen and mother of all the succubi, had made me into one of Her dark daughters as my reward. It wasn’t my destiny to become a slave like all other fallen angels, although my wings had been snipped and my halo had disintegrated, eroded by an inundation of sin.

    Mistress Inannah was my mentor. I had no choice but to believe everything she said. My Mistress promised that she would teach me everything that I needed to know to become an upstanding daughter of Lilith, a proper servant of Hell, a devoted worshiper of the great Lord Hades, and a passionate seductrix and purveyor of lust upon human and angel souls.

    I was to be Inannah’s fledgling—a student succubus who was learning her dark arts. My name was Shar-si, with a -si suffix to denote my fledgling status, while Inannah’s –ah suffix meant a fully-fledged succubus. Inannah was an elder, many centuries old.

    My life among the succubi would not be easy. I was an outsider, and the shocks of my fall and transformation had made me unstable. My emotions were out of control, and I had no memory-moorings to help keep them in check. I was often happy one minute and angry the next, and a minute after that I would burst into tears. Over the weeks and moons of my rehabilitation in Inannah’s country château, my goal was to patch over my wounded angel soul.

    Mistress Inannah comforted me. She brought me slave boys each evening. She taught me to steal love from our slaves in the succubus way—to suck the energy of their sexual desires to sate my never-ending succubus Hunger.

    Inannah praised my progress, but I hoped that I hadn’t made a mistake in betraying my own kind. When I saw the pain sometimes in a punished angel boy’s eyes, I wondered if I was to blame for his collar, his chains, and his fate.

    When I demanded more answers from Mistress Inannah, she would only smile enigmatically. My role was over, she said. I needn’t worry. My task was to serve our Lord Hades and Lady Lilith. I needed to work. I had much to learn. I needed to let go of my doubts and indulge myself fully in a life of lust and desire. I needed to surrender to my succubus transformation and thereby heal my mind.

    I was frustrated by the lack of answers about my past, but my Mistress was like a hovering mother, always by my side. Inannah was also mentoring another fledgling. Fubuki-si had studied with Inannah for some decades. Succubi aged very slowly, just like angels, so Fubuki appeared young, no older than me. She was responsible for bringing my black tea.

    One night after the evening slave-taking, I retired as usual to my bedchamber, but Fubuki didn’t bring my tea. As the hours passed towards midnight, I became jittery. I extinguished the candles, but my body felt hot. I tossed and turned in my black lace nightshirt.

    My medicinal tea gave me an intense and lingering pleasure, dear reader. When I didn’t have it, my body and mind began to ache. It can’t be overstated how much I needed my black tea. I needed the tea more deeply than I even knew in those dreamy, half-awake days.

    Of course, the succubi had addicted me to the black poppy nectar that they were mixing into my tea, but in those days I was innocent of such subtlety and venom. I would soon become more aware of what Inannah was doing to me, but I’ll relate more of that in the following chapters.

    Around midnight on that particular night, I decided to go find Fubuki. I couldn’t sleep. I needed my tea. I put on a gown and ventured barefoot from my bedroom.

    Inannah’s country home was a lavish château in the wastes of Tartarus, some distance north from Hell’s capital city of Dis. The château was a peaceful place far from the chaos, predation, and political intrigues of the big city—a good place for a traitorous angel to relax and recuperate after a fall.

    Inannah’s country home was grand. She was very wealthy. She was one of Hell’s ambassadors, and her devil husband, Archduke Asmodai, was a high-ranking official in Hell’s Court. Inannah passed each winter season in the north country, while her husband remained in the capital with his Court business.

    The château was dead silent that night, with no music or laughter from male visitors. The bronze satyr at the end of the second floor hallway looked at me in blind silence. Beyond the statue, no curtains stirred in the half-open window. No spider lightning flashed that night, or dry thunder in the polluted sky.

    Fubuki’s bedchamber was dark too, and no stirrings came from the void of Inannah’s half-open door at the far end of the hall. I peeked into the tapestry-draped cavern of Inannah’s bedchamber. The only life was a white candle that guttered in an ornate silver holder by the silken black bed.

    I descended in silence to the ground floor of the château, down the steps of the curving marble staircase lit by candelabra. When I reached the foyer, I heard the noises—faint clicks or snaps coming from the forbidden door in the corner. Inannah had ordered me not to access the door in the foyer, but I walked over and tested the gilded handle anyway.

    The door opened. The snapping sound came louder from below. Curiosity compelled me, and so did my need for tea. I was afraid to get caught, but I was supposedly a former spy. Surely I was skilled at eavesdropping, or so I must have reasoned at the time. I tip-toed through the door and down the steep close-walled curving stairs. When I reached the bottom, a startling scene unfolded.

    There was a large room under Inannah’s château with a floor mosaic of red and white tiles that formed spiraling waves. A low slab table sat in the center of the room on four stubby clawed legs. A boy with light brown skin perched on all fours on the table. He looked young like me, around college age in Earth terms, with lithe brown limbs, slender hips, and masculine shoulders.

    Mistress Inannah sat on the low table next to the nude boy with her back towards me. She wore a red leather corset that wasped her waist. Her white-blonde hair fell most of the way to her muscular hindquarters, where the light of the lamps threw the deep cleft of her bare buttocks into shadow. Inannah was nude from the waist down. In the low light of the candles, her skin looked almost as brown as the boy’s. Her long, tapering legs were splayed wide to brace herself with her elder’s hooves.

    The snapping sounds were loud in the low stone room. Inannah held one strong hand on the boy’s bare lower back and worked the paddle with the other. Snap, snap, snock. Inannah leaned forward to examine her work. She continued paddling. Snap, snap, snock.

    The boy looked up in mid-moan. He’d spotted me hiding there in the shadow of the stair, squatting like a silent gargoyle. I saw a shimmer when the boy turned his head. He had a halo. I glimpsed scars on his back too. They looked just like my own. The boy’s scars caught the lamplight when he arched and flexed his oiled brown body under the force of the paddle strokes. The boy was an angel like most of Inannah’s slaves—one of her private collection of them.

    The angel boy was distracted, but he kept his eyes fixed on me. His eyes were wide and glassy in the light of the lamps. His irises were a rich chocolate color. I thought at the time that the boy was crying from Inannah’s paddling, but in light of what I would discover eventually, I wonder if he was crying at the sight of me—his old girlfriend from Heaven, his one true love that he’d thought long lost. Without access to my memories, I didn’t recognize him then, although the sight of him tugged a deep memory-string.

    The boy groaned softly, even as he kept his eyes fixed on me. Snap, snap, snock. Snap, snap, snock. The muscles of Inannah’s shoulder flexed in the lamplight as she worked the paddle over the boy’s ass in a steady, patient rhythm.

    Inannah paused to dip her hand under the boy’s hip. The boy was aroused, and the Mistress stroked his cock slowly with her fingertips, teasing and tugging. Her fingers were like the legs of a spider, weaving a web of pleasure into the boy’s most tender skin. She worked for some seconds until she audibly flicked her black-painted fingernail against the tip and pulled her hand away.

    Inannah licked her hand, reached back underneath, and worked the boy’s cock a second more before she pulled her hand away again, dragging her fingernails across the skin of his hip. The boy arched with pleasure and pain. I knew the desperate ache in his glistening eyes. He was maddened by need for his release. The corner of Inannah’s black-painted mouth curled. She seemed pleased. She resumed the paddling.

    Snap, snap, snock.

    Emotions flowed through me as I watched—lust, desire, and a fear from viewing the forbidden. I reached between my thighs, insinuated my hand under my nightgown, and pushed against the petals of my sex. I was wet.

    I wasn’t aroused so much from the sight of the boy, but more from the power of Mistress Inannah and the things she was doing to him. The paddle smacks percussed a chord in my wicked succubus soul. I let my gaze roam to the walls of the room, which were covered with whips, crops, and a myriad of leather, metal, and glass implements. On the far side, a hall led to another lamplit room.

    I could see cages deeper in the gloom of Inannah’s pit. I glimpsed another faint halo, and another. Inannah’s angel slave boys all lived down there. The brown-eyed boy dropped his head suddenly, unable to crane his neck to watch me anymore. Snap, snap, snock.

    The Mistress reached under the angel boy and stroked him again. She turned her wrist to slap and worry his cock, sustaining the slave boy’s intimate torture. The paddle fell again from a different angle, a little harder.

    Snap, snap, snock, snock, snock.

    The boy lifted his head to look at me again. I’d never seen anything like his eyes. They were filled with anxiety, pain, wonderment, sadness, and surprise. A chill stirred my bones then. I was afraid of how Inannah might feel about my forbidden intrusion. I’d seen enough, and my stomach ached. Despite the beauty of that boy, I couldn’t focus. I needed to find Fubuki. I needed my black tea for the evening.

    I withdrew my hand from between my thighs, dried my fingers on my nightgown, and silently pivoted. My heart jumped to my throat. Fubuki was standing behind me in the stairwell, looking down from a few steps up. Her doll-like painted eyebrows formed a frown. Inannah’s first fledgling was dressed in an exquisite black evening gown. The smells of Hell’s decadence wafted from her—sweat, perfume, flowers, leather, sex, and other olfactory scent-pleasures.

    Fubuki had been out to a party, which explained my missing tea. I quietly slipped past her and fled up the steps. When I reached the foyer, I turned to close the door, but Fubuki had followed me. She grabbed my wrist. Her long, decoratively painted fingernails bit like vipers into my sensitive angel skin.

    That door is supposed to be forbidden to you, she whispered with her stilted, Asian accent. You’re in trouble.

    Please leave me alone. Please don’t tell the Mistress.

    I wrenched my arm away from Fubuki and ran up the curving staircase until I arrived out of breath in my bedchamber. I buried my heated body beneath the quilted bed covers. I was afraid there might be real consequences for my transgression.

    As I tried to sleep without my tea, the brown-eyed angel boy haunted me. I wondered if he had something to do with my memories. Perhaps he was a key to everything that had happened to me in the past. Nothing else in Hell had tugged so hard at the deep muck of my lost angel girl memories.

    I finally shucked off my nightgown and bedcovers to feel the coolness coming through the grid of iron bars in my bedroom window. The scene with the boy had aroused me. Inannah had treated him wickedly. The succubi were evil, I knew. I was afraid that I was evil too.

    The sights beyond the forbidden door hadn’t disturbed me. I’d felt lust and desire instead—feelings that no good angel would ever have, at least no angel who still had her wings. I curled into a tight naked ball. My intensity finally drained me, and I drifted off to sleep.

    My confusion continued in the dream world. I saw the brown-eyed boy. We were together in a sunny place with a bright blue sky. I saw marble surfaces and columns standing tall, and I was dressed all in white.

    The brown-eyed boy still had his little wings, and so did I. He grabbed my wrist and pleaded with me. He said things, but I heard nothing. I unfurled my ruffled pink umbrella and jumped.

    Chapter 2. An Affair Between Fledglings

    When I awoke the following morning, I shed my covers and sat for a while in the warmth of the dim Tartarus sunlight, which glowed into my bedchamber from the iron-barred window above the foot of my bed. I sat up and gazed out through the wavy glass at the gritty puce haze and yellow clouds of Tartarus—a distorted landscape so different than the clean blue that I’d seen in my dream.

    I turned my thoughts to my dreams. I tried to dredge up real memories of the brown-eyed boy. I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to know if I knew him, but I couldn’t ask Mistress Inannah without confessing that I’d disobeyed.

    The paddling scene from the prior night was like a weed in my head with roots that ran deep—roots that wouldn’t pull up no matter how hard I tugged. My attempts to remember were blocked by the hollowness in my body.

    I deeply needed my tea, and my need pounded in my head and ached in my belly. Inannah had told me that our feelings shaped our desire-bodies in the lower realms. As an angel in Heaven, my body had been composed of pure thought and intellect. In Hell, my emotional energy made up my very skin and bones—the new, sensual husk that imprisoned my angel soul.

    I was happy and relieved when I finally heard the footfalls outside my door. The gilded lever-handle of the door turned, and Fubuki appeared with the usual silver tray and the white porcelain cup on it. I climbed out of bed, uncaring about my nudity in front of my fellow fledgling. I was eager to drink my tea.

    I was standing by Fubuki when she sat the tea tray on my writing desk. My hand shook when I reached past her and took the cup. It was almost full of the black liquid—more than normal. The extra, I guessed, was to make up for missing my medicine the night before. The tea smelled sweet in my nostrils, but it always tasted bitter. Some if it dribbled down my chin.

    Clumsy, Fubuki admonished. She wiped me. Her fingernail poked the damp corner of my lip. Don’t spill it. Your medicine is expensive.

    I hardly listened to her. Intense pleasure waved down my throat, numbed my tongue, and filled my head until the roots of my hair tingled. I lowered the emptied cup with relief and leaned on the desk to steady myself. Warmth glowed through my body—a flood that washed away the disturbing thoughts of the brown-eyed boy, leaving only a tingling, relaxed pleasure and happiness through my being.

    Fubuki was standing close behind me. She tugged my arm. I almost toppled. I was unsteady on the upslopes of my tea-pleasure. I twisted to look at her, surprised.

    Fubuki always wore her face fully painted. Her eyebrows were little black lizardlings on her forehead. Matching black pencil arcs corralled the tight desirable petals of her red-painted lips. Fubuki usually brushed her face with white powder and wore a diamond piercing in her left nostril—a yellowish gem in a silver setting shaped like a tiny flower.

    Fubuki had done her hair up that morning with an elaborate coif held in place by gilded pins. Her polished fingernails were painted with tiny gold dragons. Inannah’s first fledgling was beautiful and spent a great deal of time with her beauty. It would take me years to find that level of pride in myself, perhaps because my pride kept getting wounded.

    Fubuki held a varnished stick with a leather grip. It was a meter long and reed-like in diameter. I hadn’t even noticed the stick. I’d been focusing on my tea.

    Down, Fubuki said, guiding me by my arm to the middle of my bedroom. Get on your knees on the floor. I’m going to punish you.

    My heart pounded. For what?

    You went into the pit last night. You’re forbidden to go into the pit. Mistress Inannah told you, but you did it anyway. I won’t tell the Mistress what you did. This time I’ll take matters into my own hands. You should be grateful.

    I could have resisted Fubuki. I could have used a hateful kinehex or any number of fighting moves to forcefully expel her from my room or cripple her so she couldn’t hurt me. I didn’t realize in those times that I was a far stronger succubus than I thought. Even with my wings clipped, my skills were considerable, and there was far more to my past than I’d yet been told. In fact, Fubuki couldn’t have forced me to do anything.

    I didn’t know that then, and the tea made me pliable, dizzy, and mentally weak. Fubuki’s hands guided me down to my knees. She positioned herself behind me. The skirt of her kimono tickled across the back of my bare ankle as she positioned herself.

    You might have the soul of a succubus now, Fubuki murmured. But you still have the mind of an angel girl. The reed cracked against my bare ass. I arched against the wash of pain. I forced my tea-numbed throat to form words.

    Why are you so cruel to me?

    I told you, Fubuki replied. You broke the rules. You were told not to go through that door.

    The cane fell again, and a third time, and a fourth. Tears came to my eyes. I kept protesting. Stubbornness, I’d learn, was an old trait of mine.

    Does the Mistress know that you’re punishing me?

    No, Fubuki replied. I told you that, stupid angel.

    The cane fell again with a blow that was twice as hard as all of the others. I shuddered viscerally. The cane fell again, this time across the tender backs of my thighs.

    Please stop. Please.

    I began to sob. I couldn’t help myself. I felt ashamed, and even more ashamed that I was begging. The cane fell again and again, high and low—not that hard, but enough to hurt. I made mewing sounds of infuriation. I was getting angry.

    You’re hopeless, Fubuki said cruelly. Shut up your moaning. You’re like a slave girl. I’ll bet you’re already wet.

    No I’m not.

    You don’t think so? I think I’ll check. Ten denarii says a slut for punishment is hiding in your oyster. Angel girls are all the same.

    Keep your hands away from me, I snapped. You’re the one who should be checked. You’re the one who is enjoying this.

    The cane fell again, and it kept falling, over and over. I moaned and moaned, and the pain overwhelmed the pleasure of the nectared black tea, but not too much. Fubuki finally relented, but not before she knelt and plunged a finger into my sex. Her knuckle caught my clitoris, which echoed a ping of pleasure. Fubuki withdrew her finger and wiped the wetness on the cheek of my ass, like a punctuation mark on the point she’d scored.

    Like I said, she said. I’ll put this cane in the corner behind your door to remind you of two things. Do not misbehave, and do not forget that I am the first fledgling and you are the second. And don’t you dare tell the Mistress what I did with you, or the truth will come out that you were snooping. The punishment will go much worse for you.

    I couldn’t answer. My chest was heaving with my heavy breaths. Fubuki propped the cane in the corner behind the door and left my bedroom. A hatred for Fubuki rose in my soul, even as the pain from what she’d done subsided down my backside and thighs. I wanted to take that cane and chase Fubuki with it. I wanted to beat her until she wept like I’d wept—until tears streaked the pretty paint on her fake doll-like face.

    My anger felt good somehow, like a sudden relief. I climbed unsteadily to my feet. The tea-pleasure was still deepening and spreading out inside me, calming me. The tea normally took fifteen minutes to fully bloom.

    I went to my writing desk. Fubuki had forgotten to take the tea tray. I stared down into the empty cup longingly. I picked up the cup and sniffed the sweet hollow of it. I stared down at the web of cracked, black-stained lines in the glaze. I tried to lick the cup bottom, but my tongue wasn’t long enough.

    A spark jumped in my floating head then, a connection. I remembered the brown-eyed boy. My thoughts and memories of him had slipped away completely with the wash of tea. I felt a queer horror and a sense of odd desperation.

    The hours since I’d awoken that morning were already vague. I wasn’t sure what I’d been doing before Fubuki had arrived in my bedroom with the tea set. I knew that I was forgetting something important. I went to my writing desk and examined the dusty pens in the drawer, the silvered nibs, and the stack of blank sheets. An old bottle of ink seemed serviceable.

    I sat on my sore rear end and wrote. I wrote words in angelic script. I wrote about the brown-eyed boy, and I wrote about Fubuki and how she’d punished me for venturing beyond the forbidden door. I wrote about how furious I was with her. I wrote about my suffering and every other thought that I could find inside my head. Frighteningly, there weren’t too many.

    One thing seemed certain. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to go see the brown-eyed boy again—that boy who had sparked my buried memories. When the dressing boy Paulo knocked at my door, I hid the handwritten pages before letting him lace my corset and help me into my day dress. I doubted if Paulo could read angelic script, but I didn’t want him to see that I was writing anything. I didn’t want him to tell the Mistress.

    And so began the beginnings of my recorded memories as I know them, dear reader. I planned to preserve them in a secret diary, where I would piece together my confused life. I’d hide my writings away from Mistress Inannah, Fubuki-si, and the slave boys. I would have my secrets, and I planned to unearth more of them, even while I became a succubus and adjusted to my new wicked life.

    I wanted to know more of who I really was—the answers that Mistress Inannah refused to give to me. I felt like my life depended on it. I planned to try to rebel against Inannah’s reticence. I needed to know all of myself—both dark and light—in order to make myself whole.

    I resolved to break the rules again and re-visit the pit. I’d find that slave boy’s cage and talk with him. I’d wait patiently and find a time when I wouldn't be caught going down through the forbidden door.

    Chapter 3. The Forbidden Love

    Days passed when I had no chance to investigate the chambers under Inannah's château. I had no opportunity to look for the brown-eyed angel boy down in the pit—or at least no chance that I was willing to take. Meanwhile, I hoped to see the brown-eyed boy by another, safer way.

    Each night, Inannah would bring up three slave boys from under the house. The Mistress would emerge from the forbidden door and troop the leashed boys through the foyer and into the sumptuous, well-appointed parlour, where we three succubi would entertain ourselves with our evening slave-taking. Inannah would apportion one nude slave boy to me, one to Fubuki, and keep her favorite for herself, and then we would ravish them to feed our succubus Hunger.

    I always took my slave at the same time as Mistress Inannah so she could watch me and refine my feeding techniques, but Fubuki-si stopped coming to the parlour after that morning when she punished me. She told Inannah she preferred her privacy, so Fubuki’s apportioned slave boy could wait until she came down to retrieve him.

    If Fubuki didn’t come down to the parlour at the correct hour, Inannah would summon a magical bird to her fingertips and send it flying to tell Fubuki that her slave was ready. Mistress Inannah, it’s important to note, was a very skilled sorceress.

    Because of what Fubuki had done to me, taking my slaves without Fubuki around suited me too. My memories were fuzzy, but the stripes on my backside were a reminder of what she’d done to me, as were the angry passages in my new secret diary. I didn’t want to see Fubuki either. As far as I was concerned, after Fubuki had cruelly caned me, Inannah’s first fledgling was not just my fledgling rival. She was my enemy.

    For a while, I was afraid Inannah would say something about the red lines on my backside, and I tried my best to hide them so she wouldn’t ask questions. Either I was successful for long enough until the marks faded away, or the Mistress didn’t see fit to say anything.

    The days, nights, and weeks passed in Mistress Inannah’s château. I learned more and more of the arts of succubus slave-taking, but the brown-eyed boy never emerged from the pit on the end of one of Inannah’s leather leashes. My interest in him faded along with my direct memories of him, and I no longer cared so much about such a triviality. Such was the power of the black tea and what it was doing to me.

    My succubus life with the tea was vague and dreamy, and Inannah plied me with slave boys to distract me and stoke my desires. The boys were the supporting actors in the stage play of my confined life. I learned to play with them like a cat plays with its prey. I was a hungry succubus kitten, and the boys were my cute, pliable toys.

    All of Inannah’s slaves were beautiful fallen angels from Heaven, not mere low-grade humans from Earth. They had shimmering halos of tainted gold light that matched the gold trappings on their collars. None of the slave boys still had their wings—all were shorn like me. Unlike me, the boys also wore Inannah’s brand on their backs just their buttocks—the raised welts of a letter G with a squiggle that formed a flower. The brand also looked a bit like a mouse.

    We called them boys, but they were actually souls with appearances of all ages. Some appeared much older than me. Inannah said the looks and qualities of a slave in Hell were dependent on many factors.

    For humans, slaves that died young and in perfect health were usually the most coveted. If those humans had died from sex, suicide, or love unrequited, so much the better to stoke the reservoirs of lust-energy in their souls. Angels made excellent slaves due to their conflicts over morality and sin, and their desires flowed well enough when their energy channels were pried open for lust. Angels were also purer and sweet, while humans held less appetizing emotional energy.

    The older boys weren’t as overflowing with pure lust as the younger ones, but they were the most obedient and well-behaved. A few had been Inannah’s slaves for decades. The methods of taking the slave boys to fill my Hunger came naturally to me. I learned many positions and techniques to coax orgasms from their handsome bodies. I thought I was good at it.

    Sometimes I was the aggressor, riding a boy on the wood floor in front of Inannah’s flickering fireplace. I’d hitch my dress around my hips and milk his cock with the muscles of my sex. Other times I directed the boy to do the work while I relaxed on my knees. I’d rest my head on the cushions of one of our parlour armchairs and pull the boy in, applying suction with my inner succubus power both physical and mystical. I’d absorb the sweet spurts of life-giving lust energy that the boy inevitably surrendered to me.

    I loved the evening slave-takings with the angel boys. They were the favorite part of my life. My Hunger was like a beast in my belly that I needed to pacify. I stoked the love essence from the boys, only to steal it and leave them empty. Their passion would dim in their eyes, and their strength and light became mine.

    The boys from the pit were sweet, but I had a little contempt for them. Sometimes I wanted to punish one if he wasn’t eager to please. Some of the boys didn’t like me. I could see it in their eyes. I could feel what they were thinking. I was an angel girl whore—a freak, a turncoat, and a traitor against Heaven and everything holy.

    Some of the boys disliked taking orders from me, but I brooked no insolence from any boy. Inannah smiled and encouraged me to punish them on a whim. I was a succubus fledgling, a junior member of Hell’s ruling elite, and the slave boys needed to learn their place, even if it galled them to kneel to me.

    I especially enjoyed slapping the boys. Finding excuses to do it amused me. If a boy wasn’t working hard enough, I was required to take up the crops, paddles, and clips that Inannah kept on the parlour étagère—implements to inspire the boys when their desires flagged. It was in these times, when I was most cruel and pitiless, that Mistress Inannah seemed most pleased with me. Her lips would form a knowing smile, and her silvery eyes would gleam.

    Inannah would direct me to the slave boy’s most sensitive places. She instructed me how to use the leathery tools of control. She taught me cunning techniques of making boys release their love to me. If the boys underperformed, there were consequences. The boys had been well-trained by Inannah over the years so certain treatments stimulated them greatly.

    Inannah would watch me work with her sultry eyes lidded. She always fiddled with her diamond earrings, as if it helped her think. Inannah loved diamonds. She even wore diamond studs in the centers of her perfectly polished, painted fingernails. Her diamonds matched the highlights in her long white-blonde hair.

    Sometimes I met Inannah’s silvery eyes while I used a slave boy in the parlour. The lips of the Mistress would curl into a soft smile, and an intimacy grew between Inannah and me. After all, we were two succubi indulging our deepest, darkest desires right in front of one another.

    As I recorded in my diary, I began to feel lust for Inannah during those moons and weeks of nightly orgies. My young succubus desires ran wild, and my desire for the Mistress slowly gained a hold over me, like a mystical connection that jumped between us.

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1