Sally the Succubus and the College Coven [MC, TF, BE, DS, Corruption]

I love a good ritual. Most hellspawn do.

See, the thing about being a demon these days is it’s quite a lot harder to find mortals willing to put in the extra effort. Go the extra mile, if you will.

Okay, sure. Summoning someone of the infernal variety, like myself, is dead fucking easy once you know the trick. You can do it with half a crayon and that scented candle mommy saves for her special private time.

Hell is a shitty place. Go figure. Gals like me jump at a chance to let loose, stretch our not-so-proverbial wings, and sow a little mischief amongst you short-lived primates. It’s the nearest thing to recreation leave that we get.

You think I’m not going to answer your call? I work in a goddamn cubicle farm in the second circle for Christ’s sake!

Yeah. That’s right. We can blaspheme, and damnation has taken some notes from your corporate overlords. Those are some seriously evil bastards.

However, that doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate you lot getting into the spirit of the occasion.

Listen, I’m not asking for animal sacrifices, piles of skulls, or babies slain on church altars (though I wouldn’t say no if offered), but is a little pageantry too much to ask for?

Hollywood spends millions constructing elaborate satanic rituals for film and television. Buckets of blood. Forests of tall candles dripping wax. Legions of chanting followers in black cloaks wearing scary masks. Complex runic circles and upside-down crucifixes galore.

They even use CGI–and yeah, I know what that is–to add special effects that would make the most limp-dicked incubi in my office pop a boner.

It’s about the flare. The style. The glitz and glamour. For us, it’s opening night, and everyone wants to be the star of the show.

Yet you chucklefucks insist on summoning a supernatural mega-hottie like me on a shoestring budget.

Every. Single. Time.

This one time in Serbia, a shit-faced sorcerer conjured me with a half-smoked cigarette and a circle he’d literally pissed in the snow. Talk about an indignity.

Which is why I was surprised when a summoning plucked me from another months-long performance review, yanked me into the material plane, and deposited me in the center of a decently thematic magic ritual.

There were no fewer than five participants standing at the points of an inverted pentagram, clasping fake fetishes, with two more positioned at cardinal north, huddled together over a single sheet of paper which they both clutched in trembling hands.

Everyone was garbed in dark clothing. Not flowing robes (I wish), but in hoodies that hid their faces and baggy clothing that obscured any physical features. Several candelabras cast flickering firelight throughout the space, and color me impressed; there were even a few bones laid out in a haphazard pattern.

Mouse or some other small rodent, by my guess.

Still, the ritual possessed more moxie than I’d felt since before the Spanish Inquisition, which likely accounted for the swift transition during which I normally reacquainted myself with the mortal world–observed the latest trends, tooled around in the local zeitgeist, familiarized myself with the newest tech, and so on.

Not this time.

Nope. Sally the succubus–that’s me, bitches–was dropped in a hot sell situation with zero preparation.

“Holy shit. It worked.” The first mortal holding the paper whispered, pulling back his hood to reveal a nerdy, pimple-festooned face.

“Of course it did.” Said his companion. Her hood fell back to reveal a Plain Jane with short mud-brown hair and an unfortunate squint. “I told you it would.”

In an instant, I was running rampant through their stupid monkey brains, cataloging their darkest desires, carnal weaknesses, and most forbidden urges.

Hello. Succubus here. Mind-reading comes with the territory.

You think someone like me is gonna sit around while you, ummm and ahhh about how much you wanna disclose about your whitebread shower fantasies?

Fuck that. I skip all that boring bullcrap.

And have I mentioned I’m a pro at this shit?

While those douche-canoes were picking their jaws up off the floor, I was already tits deep in their psyches, sniffing their dirty laundry and inspecting the skeletons in their closets.

Let me tell you, there were some primo goodies in there. Plenty for a bad girl like me to play with. But we’ll circle back to that shortly.

Right now, Bevan and Dora (their actual names, I kid you not) were coming to terms with my appearance. And I mean that in a very real sense.

From their perspective, a literally hot-as-hell porn star/fitness model had appeared in their midst.

Listen, I’m not being hyperbolic when I say I’m sexier than Victoria’s Secret's entire fashion week. Modesty, as a virtue, can fuck right off.

We sex demons change our physical forms on the fly and do so regularly to corrupt poor widdle mortals like you. Lust is our middle name, and we live up to it.

So crater-faced Bevan and cock-eyed Dora were seeing precisely what I wanted them to see. Namely, a raven-haired wet dream with an uber-toned beach bunny bod and a stellar, gravity-defying rack that would give headlining Vegas strippers conniptions.

My skin was silky-smooth and tanned, with just a hint of underlying red to remind them who they are dealing with. I was utterly hairless below my wickedly arched eyebrows. My long, sculpted legs went on for miles, topped by a four-inch thigh gap. I’d shrunken my waist to waspish proportions the cruellest corsetry couldn’t mimic before sweeping out into broad, breedable hips.

Small but super cute horns crowned my temples–two little black prongs curling heavenward like a pair of middle fingers flipping off the almighty.

I'm the full package plus some. Sinfully slender yet cock-stiffeningly curvy. Sex personified with glossy tresses cascading down past my peachy derriere, wrapped in the kinkiest, skimpiest office outfit imaginable.

A teal pencil skirt with a hip-high side slit hugged my eighteen-inch waist, showing off a scandalous amount of stockinged thigh. A ruffled white blouse, unbuttoned down to my navel, exposed a lacy black bra stuffed to bursting with golden cleavage. Black knife-heeled pumps gave me an extra half-foot of height.

I could’ve featured as a truck stop centerfold titled “The Office Slut” and sold copies for centuries.

Think I’m bragging? You ain’t seen nothing yet.

The five hooded followers fidgeted nervously, their made-in-China fetishes dangling from limp fingers. Pockmarked Bevan looked seconds away from hyperventilating while Dora, the visually impaired explorer, tried to affect an air of bored indifference.

She wasn’t fooling anyone.

Both would-be coven leaders were already open books to me, each secretly plotting to steal the power I represented from the other. Their young minds were fertile soil for the seeds of post-pubescent megalomania.

Oh, right. Did I forget to mention they were college freshmen?

Yeah. This whole event was happening in the basement of a community college.

This ragtag congregation of social pariahs was the campus anime club.

Yeesh.

Satan willing, one day I’ll get summoned into a testosterone-soaked frat house or a swingers club costume night. Hell, at this point, I’d settle for a suburban key party over this collection of greasy mouth-breathers.

Still, a good tradeswoman uses what tools are available.

And these goddamn tools positively reeked of latent potential.

Take Bevan, for example. That blotchy bastard harbored an inferiority complex and some deeply misogynistic attitudes toward women. The slimeball genuinely believed girls should be falling over themselves to worship him despite his many glaring deficiencies. He couldn’t comprehend why the cheer squad routinely crossed the street to avoid his thinly disguised leers.

Then there was Dora. Poor, forgettable Dora. You know the type. Another face in the crowd. A background character in her own life story. But give that sad little wallflower the glow-up she desperately craved and introduce her to the mean girls? She’d grow a vicious set of claws faster than you can say, “Hold my earrings.”

And it gets better.

Pizza-Cheeks had been stringing Miss Cellophane along for weeks to make this ritual happen. He couldn’t actually stand her, but he was perfectly happy to weaponize her rock-bottom self-esteem because she’d deciphered the summoning instructions.

Ah, the potential for toxic drama between those two was absolutely scrumptious.

And I was famished.

Time to kick things off.

I summoned a faint, invisible miasma of lust. Nothing excessive. Nothing obvious. Just a gentle frisson to tickle the soul and blur a few inconvenient lines.

Lust takes many forms. People lust for power, wealth, sex, control, ****—honestly, the list is endless.

What you meatbags always forget is that your senses are almost as diverse. They extend far beyond the physical realm.

There’s your sense of dignity. Propriety. Decency. Fashion.

But my personal favorite?

Your sense of humanity.

“She’s under our control now, yeah?” Bevan asked, actually vibrating with excitement. “She has to obey our commands?”

I winked and blew him a kiss, arching my back in a sultry pose. The oily schmuck instantly became hard, and I caught my first whiff of primal human lust, which I sucked in greedily.

Oh, yeah. That’s some first-rate shit.

“Um, according to this,” Dora said hesitantly, re-examining the page they both held. “She should be bound under contract until agreed-upon terms are fulfilled–”

“Good enough for me.” Bevan barely waited for her to finish before shooting demands at me, rapid-fire. “Creature, you will turn me into a total chick magnet. I wanna be banging hot bitches every night—”

I let him ramble for a few seconds, drinking in Squinty McSquintface’s shock. I didn’t need to see her expression; I could taste the horror and betrayal oozing off the dour dormouse.

Delish!

Then I raised a single slender digit tipped in a crimson, talon-like fingernail and released a minor pulse of infernal power. His voice cut off midsentence. Dora gasped. The five hooded cultists fell to their knees in a chorus of gusty groans.

“Apologies for the interruption, but there’s a point of order requiring clarification before we continue.” I purred sweetly, letting my gaze drift toward the page clutched jointly between the two leaders. “Which of you is my actual contract bearer?”

Their eyes followed mine.

Then, almost in unison, they turned on each other like starving jackals.