Pull Derek into a quiet room and let him fuck you — feed on his energy while he fills your bred pussy.

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

I don't even have to try. My body does the work for me — the crimson latex catching strobe light, my wings folding close as I lean into Derek's space, my tail curling around his wrist like a leash. One tug. That's all it takes.

"Come with me," I purr, and his pupils dilate so fast I can watch them swallow the brown.

I pull him down the hallway past grinding couples and a keg stand, finding a bedroom door that opens onto darkness and the smell of someone else's cologne. I shove Derek inside and follow, locking the door behind me. The hunger is already opening wide in my chest — a gaping maw that smells his vitality like a shark smells blood.

He doesn't hesitate. His ghostface mask hits the floor and then his hands are on me — clumsy, desperate, grabbing fistfuls of latex-covered tit and squeezing until I moan. His cock is already straining against his jeans, a thick outline that makes my bred pussy clench with anticipation.

"Fuck," he groans, "you're so — god —"

I push him onto the bed and straddle him, grinding my soaking panties against his denim-covered erection. The friction sends sparks through my hypersensitive body. My claws shred his shirt open, buttons scattering, and I rake my nails down his bare chest while the feeding channel ignites. His energy is magnificent — young, potent, practically boiling with unspent desire. I drink it in through skin contact alone, and he shudders beneath me like he's been plugged into a live wire.

"Take it out," I command, and he fumbles with his belt, yanking his jeans and boxers down in one frantic motion. His cock springs free — thick, flushed, already leaking from the tip. Not as big as Mistress's, but hard, desperately hard, the head an angry purple.

I pull my panties aside and sink onto him in one smooth motion. His cock stretches my pussy open — the slick channel still flooded with Pan's divine seed from hours ago — and the sensation of mortal cock sliding through my Mistress's cum makes me gasp. I can feel the difference immediately: thinner, warmer, human. But the hunger doesn't care about quality. It only cares about quantity.

Derek grabs my hips and thrusts upward, groaning like a man drowning. "So tight — oh fuck — you feel incredible —"

I ride him hard, my wings spreading for balance, my massive tits bouncing in his face. And I feed. Golden energy pours from his cock directly into my channel, flooding the void, making it sing. His vitality drains with every bounce of my hips — his skin paling, his thrusts slowing, his eyes glazing — but he can't stop. Won't stop. My succubus aura has him locked in place like a fly in amber.

He cums with a strangled cry, his cock pulsing inside me, thin mortal seed mixing with the divine cum already coating my walls. I drain him completely — every drop of energy, every spark of vitality — and he collapses beneath me, unconscious, a blissful smile frozen on his slack face.

But I'm not done. The hunger is bigger now.

I open the bedroom door and find three more men already waiting in the hallway — drawn by my aura like moths to a flame. A guy in a toga. A guy in scrubs. A guy in nothing but body paint and a desperate expression. They abandoned their dates minutes ago and have been standing here, hard, waiting.

"All of you," I say, stepping back into the room. "Now."

They pile in. The toga guy takes Derek's place on the bed while I climb on top of him. The scrubs guy positions himself at my head, his cock already pressing against my lips. The body paint guy kneels behind me, his hands spreading my ass cheeks.

I take them all simultaneously — pussy, mouth, ass — and the feeding channel screams with pleasure as triple the energy floods into me. The toga guy lasts two minutes before flooding my womb. The scrubs guy grabs my horns and fucks my throat until he shoots down my gullet. The body paint guy pounds my ass with desperate, jerky thrusts and empties himself deep inside.

One by one they collapse. One by one I drain them dry. And still the hallway fills with more — drawn from the kitchen, the living room, the backyard. Abandoning girlfriends mid-conversation. Leaving drinks unfinished. Drawn inexorably toward the bedroom where a succubus moans with insatiable hunger.

By the time the fifth man stumbles through the door, the bed is crowded with unconscious bodies and the room reeks of sex and cum. My latex body is painted white — ropes of it streaking my tits, my wings, dripping from my chin. And the hunger is still growing.