Skip ahead to arriving at Megan's party — walk in as the sexiest succubus anyone has ever seen, already bred and hungry for more.

Megan's House, Westwood Heights, at 9:47 PM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

The hours between the shop and the party pass in a haze of sensation and preparation. Pan bathes me — running warm water over my latex-sheathed body, her hands gentle and proprietary as she cleans the dried cum from between my thighs. She dresses me in nothing but a pair of sheer black panties that barely contain my swollen, bred pussy, and a tiny crimson thong that rides up between my ass cheeks. My wings are free. My horns gleam. The gemstone at my throat pulses with a soft, satisfied warmth.

We arrive at Megan's house in Pan's car — a sleek black thing that materialized from nowhere. The party is already in full swing, bass thumping through the walls, costumed figures spilling across the lawn. Pan walks beside me in her werewolf form — broad-shouldered, stubbled, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans that make her look exactly like a taller, more confident version of Trevor. She squeezes my hand at the door.

"Remember," she murmurs in Trevor's borrowed voice. "Feed. Don't kill them. Just take enough to leave them dazed and happy."

The door opens and we step inside.

The effect is immediate.

Every conversation within ten feet of me dies. Heads turn. Jaws drop. I feel their eyes like physical weight — crawling over my horns, my wings, the crimson latex fused to my skin, my massive tits that strain against the thin material with every breath. A guy dressed as a vampire walks directly into a wall. Two girls in matching cat ears stop mid-sentence to stare.

The hunger surges. The void in my chest opens wide, drinking in the ambient sexual energy like a sponge. Dozens of horny college students packed into a house, their arousal already spiking just from looking at me. I can taste it — thick, sweet, intoxicating. My pussy clenches behind the sheer panties, slick already gathering.

"Holy shit," someone breathes to my left.

I turn and find a tall guy in a half-assed ghostface costume — the mask pushed up on his forehead, revealing a square-jawed face with wide brown eyes. He's maybe twenty-two, built like a lacrosse player, and his cock is already visibly hardening in his jeans.

"I'm Derek," he says, extending a hand. His voice cracks slightly. "That's — uh — that's a really good costume."

His eyes haven't left my tits once.

Behind me, I feel Pan — Trevor — already moving. She claps some guy on the shoulder, laughing at a joke I can't hear, sliding effortlessly into the social fabric of the party. Working the room. Hunting.

Derek is still standing there, hand extended, sweating slightly. The hunger coils in my chest, patient and predatory. I can feel his energy — young, vital, practically radiating desire. My tail flicks behind me.

"Trixie," I purr, taking his hand and not letting go. My claws trace his palm. "And it's not a costume."