Chapter 175: A Proper Succubus

I retreated back a step, peeling myself out of Willow’s arms with a reflexive twist that put precious air between us, my pulse already hammering from the lingering heat of her body and the sweet scent that clung to her skin like sin itself.

My thoughts lagged a beat behind my body, scattered and uncooperative, made worse by the fact that her proximity alone seemed to short-circuit my ability to think like a responsible adult.

“What exactly,” I asked with careful precision, “do you think I came here for?”

Willow’s emerald eyes gleamed, bright and unapologetic, her wine-dark lips curling into a grin that made it very clear she was enjoying this far too much.

“Sex!” she said happily, like she was announcing the weather or commenting on a pleasant afternoon. “Obviously. You came here for sex. With me. Right now. Possibly on that bed, maybe against the wall if you’re feeling adventurous.”

The words landed like a wet slap between my thighs. Heat flooded me despite myself, my cock giving a traitorous little twitch beneath my dress, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide how quickly she could unravel me.

Then I sighed—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that carried the telltale weight of disappointment.

“As… insanely flattering as that offer is—and gods, it really is—that’s not what I came here for.” I straightened my posture, trying to project confidence. “I came to learn magic. Specifically excarnic magic. Mavus said you could teach me the basics since we’re the same species and apparently there are specialized applications that only succubi can—”

Willow’s laugh cut me off, low and molten, before she closed the distance between us again in a single prowling step, the lace of her crotchless lingerie brushing my bare thigh and leaving a damp trail of slick burning against my skin.

“But we could have sex and I could teach you magic,” Willow interrupted, already pressing closer. “Multi-tasking. It’s a valuable skill. Very efficient use of time.” She reached out to trail her finger along my collarbone, her touch feather-light and electric. “Besides, the best way to learn succubus magic is through practical application. Hands-on experience. Very, very hands-on.”

I could feel myself starting to sweat despite the relatively cool temperature of the room, small beads forming at my hairline and beginning a slow descent down my temples.

“I appreciate the offer,” I managed, taking another step back only to find myself closer to the bed, “but I just need the magical instruction part. The theoretical knowledge. Maybe a demonstration that doesn’t involve anyone’s clothes coming off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Willow asked, her pout somehow making her look even more appealing. “You’re a succubus too, aren’t you? Sex isn’t just recreation for us—it’s sustenance, power, the very core of what we are. Denying that is like…” she gestured vaguely, searching for the right metaphor, “like a bird refusing to fly because walking is more dignified.”

“I’m not denying anything,” I protested, my voice pitching slightly higher than I’d intended. “I just think there’s a time and place for everything, and right now the time is ’learning magic’ and the place is ’not in a bed with you doing things that will definitely distract me from the learning part.’”

Willow tilted her head, studying me with those piercing emerald eyes. “You know what I think? I think you’re scared. Not of the sex—you clearly have no issues with that based on what I heard coming from Felix’s room, and Grisha’s room, and apparently everywhere you go. But scared of what it means to fully embrace what you are. Scared of the power that comes with accepting your nature.”

“That’s not—I’m not scared—” I stammered, but Willow was already moving.

She rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation then yanked my hand with surprising strength, dragging me toward the bed despite my attempts to dig my heels into the carpet.

Before I could recover, she pivoted smoothly and planted her palm against my chest. The shove wasn’t cruel, just decisive—perfectly measured—and my balance vanished in an instant.

I staggered back and went down onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs and indignation, the mattress swallowing me whole as Willow loomed above with a smile that made it painfully clear she’d planned that entire sequence from the start.

For a moment I thought I was about to get assaulted yet again by someone who’d decided consent was more of a suggestion than a requirement.

I braced myself for a fight, my muscles tensing as I prepared to enhance my body for a desperate escape attempt, but instead of pouncing on me, Willow simply settled into a criss-cross position at the end of the bed. Her legs folded beneath her with casual grace, hands resting on her knees as she let out a long, lingering sigh.

“How,” she asked with genuine bewilderment, “could you ever call yourself a proper succubus?”

I pushed myself up to a seated position, my hair disheveled, my dress bunched high enough to bare the tops of my thighs and the soft curve where they met my hips. “I never claimed to be a proper anything,” I said defensively. “I’m just trying to survive and maybe learn some magic along the way. Is that so terrible?”

“For our kind? Yes, actually.” Willow leaned forward, her expression taking on the quality of a professor addressing a particularly dense student. “Sex isn’t optional for succubi. It’s not just pleasure or recreation—it’s how we feed, how we sustain ourselves, how we connect with our power. Every time you pass up an opportunity for intimate connection, you’re starving yourself of energy you could be drawing on.” She gestured at me with both hands. “Look at you! You’re running on fumes, operating at maybe twenty percent of your potential because you’re treating your nature like it’s something shameful instead of embracing it.”

“I don’t treat it as shameful,” I protested, but my voice lacked conviction because part of me wondered if she was right. “I just… prefer to be selective.”

“That’s the human mentality I’m talking about!” Willow interrupted, her tail lashing behind her with agitation. “Humans view sex as this rare, precious thing to be carefully rationed and controlled. But we’re not human. We’re succubi. For us, sex is as natural as breathing, as necessary as eating. Passing up opportunities isn’t being selective—it’s self-sabotage. It’s a grave offense to our kind, to the very essence of what we are.”

I didn’t reply, couldn’t find words to counter her argument because some part of me—some deep, primal part that I’ve tried very hard to ignore—was screaming that she was absolutely right.

A beat of silence passed between us, heavy and weighted, before Willow’s expression shifted into something that was almost theatrical in its superiority. She straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and put on a high and mighty facade that would have been annoying if it weren’t so obviously affected.

“I suppose,” she said with exaggerated martyrdom, “that I’m going to have to teach you to be a true succubus. Someone has to save you from your own self-imposed limitations.”

“Does that involve learning actual spells?” I asked hopefully, latching onto the promise of concrete magical instruction. “Like, documented techniques I can practice and refine?”

Willow’s mood switched in an instant, her entire demeanor brightening with genuine cheer. “Of course! I’m going to teach you everything—the basics of excarnic manipulation, species-specific applications, advanced techniques for energy absorption. You’ll be a proper succubus by the time I’m done with you.” She paused, then added with a wicked smile, “But first, take off your clothes.”

I blinked at her, my brain struggling to process that transition. “Is that really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Willow said with complete confidence. “I need to know what I’m working with. Body type determines optimal feeding methods, physical capabilities influence spell applications, and I can’t assess your natural energy flow if you’re all covered up.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Come on, strip. Don’t be shy—I’ve already seen Felix’s artwork, so I have a pretty good idea of what you’re packing.”

I hesitated for a long moment, weighing my options and finding them severely limited, before reluctantly beginning to undress.

The dress came off first, sliding up over my head and leaving my skin exposed to the cool air of the room.

My boots followed, kicked off to land somewhere in the corner, then the delicate lingerie that Julius had provided—lacy, expensive, and now crumpled on the floor.

The opera gloves were last, peeled down my arms with careful precision until I was laid completely bare, my naked skin touching the silk sheets with a sensation that made me shiver.

Willow watched the entire process with growing intensity, her eyes tracking every movement, every inch of newly exposed flesh, until her gaze landed half-lidded on my cock which was—traitorously, predictably—already starting to harden from the attention and the charged atmosphere of the room.

Then she pounced.

Not aggressively, not violently, but with the fluid grace of a cat who’d spotted something interesting and decided immediate investigation was necessary.

Then, without warning, her hands were on me—one broad palm pressing against my chest, pinning me flat to the sweat-damp sheets with effortless strength while the other skimmed along the curve of my hip in teasing, raising desperate gooseflesh in their wake.

Her wine-dark body hovered over mine, a furnace of lush curves and shadowed heat, so close that waves of her scorching radiance licked my flesh.

The air thickened with her intoxicating musk—a thick, syrupy blend of honeyed cunt, ripe sweat, and raw succubi pheromones that poured straight into my lungs, making my head swim and my cock throb with helpless, aching hunger.

She inspected me like a predator savoring its prey, every motion clinically precise yet drenched in filthy intent.

Her fingers mapped the sharp ridge of my collarbone, memorizing the fragile architecture beneath, then drifted lower to circle my nipples with slow, merciless accuracy.

Each calculated touch detonated sparks down my spine, forcing ragged hitches from my throat while my cock swelled heavier, pulsing with growing need.

She dipped her head and dragged her hot, slick tongue up the trembling plane of my stomach in one long, possessive lick—tasting the salt of my skin, the lingering tang of dried cum and sweat from last night’s debauchery that no amount of scrubbing could erase—savoring me like a delicacy she intended to devour whole.

Her tail—that thin, pointed appendage—slithered up along the underside of my shaft with agonizing slowness.

The texture was impossibly sleek—velvet-smooth yet alien, like living silk laced with a faint, cool undertone that made every nerve in my cock scream when it grazed me.

It coiled slowly, deliberately, starting at the thick root where my shaft met my aching balls, then dragged upward in one long, torturous glide, hugging the throbbing vein along the underside

When the pointed tip finally circled the flushed, swollen head—once, twice—before pressing firmly into that exquisite spot just beneath the crown, a thick rope of pre-cum erupted from my slit, spilling in a hot, shameful cascade down my shaft, glazing my length in the glistening proof of my surrender.

“Responsive,” she murmured, her breath hot against my chest as she continued her exploration. “Very responsive. That’s good—means your body is naturally attuned to sexual energy, ready to channel and absorb it efficiently.” Her hands mapped lower, fingers ghosting over my ribs, my hips, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. “Muscle definition is adequate but not overwhelming, flexibility appears excellent based on how you move, and your cock…” She gave it an appraising look. “Smaller than average, but beautifully formed. Perfect for the role you’ll naturally fall into.”

She curled up at my side then, her body pressing along my length, head nestled heavy on my shoulder, breath hot against my throat, while her hand splayed possessively over my chest, fingers spread wide to feel the frantic hammer of my heart.

I could feel every point of contact—her breasts soft and warm against my ribs, her thigh thrown over mine, her tail still wrapped loosely around the base of my cock like a living restraint.

“Your body type is best suited for direct contact,” Willow explained, her voice taking on that professorial quality again despite the intimate position. “Close-range energy absorption through contact of skin, kissing, penetration. Some succubi can feed from a distance, drawing on the ambient sexual energy of a room, but you? You’re built for the personal touch. Which means I’m going to teach you the basic spells that will enhance and facilitate that method.”

“Which are?” I asked, my voice coming out more breathless than I’d intended because her hand had already begun its slow, treacherous slide lower—fingertips drawing lazy, burning circles through the thin sheen of sweat on my chest, each spiral dipping closer to my navel.

“I’ll teach you one of my favorites first,” Willow said as her hand continued lower, lower still, until her fingers were brushing against the base of my cock.

The pressure of her tail tightened a fraction—deliberate, possessive—squeezing the swollen base and forcing the shaft to pulse thick and heavy against the cool, silken restraint.

Then her fingers joined the torment. Feather-light dances along the rigid length, ghosting over throbbing veins and slick skin with touches so faint they felt like wicked hallucinations.

She began playing with my cock in earnest then, her movements exploratory and teasing. She gathered the pre-cum oozing from my slit on the pad of her finger, then lifted it to examine how the sticky fluid stretched between her skin and my cockhead, creating thin strands that caught the red light of the room and gleamed like spider’s silk.

When the connection broke, she brought her finger to her lips and tasted it with a small hum of appreciation before returning her attention to my aching length.

Her hand wrapped around me fully then—firm enough to own every inch, but not painful in its pressure—delivering a few rapid pumps that wrenched my hips clear off the bed in a helpless, jerking spasm, a choked groan tearing from my throat.

Then she eased into a cruel, languid rhythm, dragging her slick palm up and down with torturous slowness, twisting her wrist on each upstroke so the soft inner skin of her fingers spiraled over the swollen head.

My pre-cum was flowing freely now, coating her hand and my cock in slippery warmth, turning every stroke into a wet, filthy squelch

that filled the room.

My breathing started growing out of control, each inhale ragged and desperate, my chest heaving with the effort of trying to process the overwhelming sensations flooding my system.

Willow shifted closer, molding herself flush against me until her heavy breasts crushed hot and soft into my side, stiff nipples dragging through the lace to brand twin points of fire against my skin.

Her lips found the shell of my ear, breath scalding, as she began to whisper—voice low, dripping thick with honey and sin.

“Just relax,” she murmured, “Let yourself feel it. Succubi are meant to drown in the sensation, to let it wash over them completely. Your body knows what to do. Just trust it. Trust me.”

I felt myself melting into her words, into her touch, my muscles going liquid and pliant under her ministrations.

Her tail tightened incrementally around the base of my cock, pumping pressure just shy of pain, as her hand continued its maddening rhythm—fast then slow, tight then loose, always changing, always keeping me off-balance.

Then she positioned her hand differently, hovering her index finger and thumb around the head of my cock without quite touching it.

She gave her lips a little lick, her tongue darting out to wet them, and I watched with wide eyes as a sharp buzz of red lightning began crackling between her fingers.

It was both beautiful and terrifying at once, electric energy dancing through patterns in the air before she brought those charged fingers down to press directly against my cock.

The instant they made contact the current exploded through me—red lightning surging from her skin straight into mine. Almost immediately, my back snapped into a brutal arch—spine bowing off the bed in a savage curve so sharp I thought it might snap. A raw, guttural scream tore from my throat, ripping the air apart.

The current blazed through my cock and radiated outward in searing waves, locking my thighs rigid, clenching my abs until they burned, forcing my toes to curl hard enough to cramp.

My shaft jerked wildly in her tail’s grip, swollen to bursting, veins bulging as the electric fire coiled tighter in my balls.

And then I was cumming.

No—not just cumming. I came harder than I’d ever cum in my entire life, harder than I thought was physically possible, harder than should have been survivable.

My cock erupted with such savage force that the first spurt flew through the air and landed with a wet splat across my face—hot, sticky cum splattering my cheek in a heavy streak before dripping down to glaze my parted lips with the salty shame of my own spend.

Then came a whole wave of spurts—thick, endless, each one wrenching through my shaft like a fist, pumping out impossible volumes of creamy white that surged from my swollen head in fat, relentless jets.

It didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. I kept cumming, rope after rope of release painting my chest, my stomach, the sheets beneath me.

My balls throbbed with deep, vicious cramps, squeezing upward in brutal contractions as they churned out ceaseless waves of cum, each wrenching pulse ripping another hot rope from my overworked shaft.

The pleasure was so intense it crossed into territory that was almost painful, overwhelming every sense until all I could process was the electric sensation and the unstoppable flood.

When it finally, finally ended—my balls completely drained, utterly empty, not a single drop left in reserve—I was left panting on the sheets like I’d just run a marathon. Sweat coated my entire body, my muscles trembling with exhaustion.

I could feel Willow’s giggle vibrating against my side where she curled tighter next to me. And in that very moment I could only whisper two words, my voice hoarse, desperate, yet completely sincere:

“Teach me.”

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