I woke up with the sensation of something sharp scratching my back—not painfully, but persistently, rousing me better than any alarm clock. A cat? It felt like just yesterday I didn't have one. Though, after meeting the succubus, nothing would surprise me anymore.
The light scratches grew more noticeable. Yawning, I rolled over and nearly tumbled off the bed. There, sprawled lazily atop the blanket, was Scarlett Sullivan—completely, unabashedly naked—not bothering to cover herself as I gawked at her chest.
"Look, but don't touch," she said with a chuckle.
Her smile snapped me fully awake.
"Then what's the point of the show?" I muttered, unable to peel my eyes away.
Staring was inevitable. She was too stunning, too perfect, like she'd stepped straight out of a glossy men's magazine. But the room's dimness veiled the juiciest details, leaving me to fill in the blanks with my imagination.
"A little bonus for getting started," she said, her fingernail grazing the medallion's chain on my neck. "I'd hoped it'd be quicker, but at least this way…"
She stretched slowly, gracefully—like a cat—arms rising above her head. Her breasts, mere inches from my face, lifted enticingly—so lush my hands moved toward them on their own.
"Touch me, and I'll burn you to ashes," Scarlett said casually.
She flicked her nail, and a tongue of flame danced before my eyes. Of all the succubi in the world, why'd I get the most frigid one?
- "Be rude, and I'll burn you to ashes," she added, her nail now drifting lazily near my face. "And you know why you got me: because you're a virgin!"
Her hand landed possessively on my boxers. Apparently, I was the only one barred from touching—she didn't apply the same rules to herself.
"Besides," the demoness continued, "the hornier you get, the faster you'll fill my medallion…"
What else would she do to rile me up?
- "Noah, time to get up!"
My door creaked ominously. I nearly leapt out of bed, picturing my mom's reaction to a naked, older woman beside me. She'd assume some divorcee was after me.
- "Mom, don't come in!" My voice rasped, betraying me.
But the door swung open, and Mom stepped inside. Scarlett didn't flinch, her hand still shamelessly on my boxers. My face twisted for both of us.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked, puzzled.
Confused, but not shocked.
"Are you sick?" she pressed.
It hit me—she couldn't see Scarlett. Otherwise, the questions would've been *very* different.
"Bad dream," I said, exhaling in relief.
Scarlett raised a mocking eyebrow.
- "Bad, huh!" She gave my boxers a light, deliberate smack—right where it counted.
I barely stifled a yelp.
"Get up, you'll be late for university," Mom said, flipping the light switch.
The chandelier's yellow glow shredded the darkness, revealing Scarlett in all her glory—she didn't even try to cover up.
- "Yes, listen to Mommy," she drawled sarcastically. "Get up! You still owe me a ton of sex!"
The day had just begun, but I already felt like I was losing it.
---
I propped my chin on my hand, gazing thoughtfully at the girls in the auditorium. Scarlett said their flags were obvious—you just had to see them. Maybe, but I still didn't get how or where to look.
Take yesterday with Stella Brooks: how was I supposed to know she got off on being watched? It was pure luck I triggered her flag when I stared. I didn't even have to try.
Maybe someone else had that kink? I started eyeing the girls around me. But no matter how brazenly I stared, they just frowned and turned away. None even glanced at me—like I, and my back-row seat, didn't exist.
A hand clapped my shoulder so suddenly I flinched.
- "Come on, spill it!" Ethan Miller plopped beside me, practically rubbing his hands in excitement.
- "Spill what?" I played dumb.
- "Stella Brooks! How, what, where'd it come from?"
I sighed. I didn't want to relive what went down at Stella's place, let alone talk about it.
- "Didn't know she was such a big deal…"
- "But now you do!" Ethan grinned, smug. "So, you planning to finish the job?"
His nosiness was grating. It felt like a tabloid interview.
- "What, wanna watch?" I shot back, dripping sarcasm.
- "Obviously!" He missed the tone entirely. "Stella's all about solos. It's rare she has a guest—huge when it happens! You get how lucky you are?"
He gushed like I'd become a star overnight. Dubious fame, though. Do porn stars enjoy autograph requests?
My eyes drifted across the auditorium, landing on Chloe Harper and her friend chatting at a desk. Maybe eavesdropping on girls' conversations would help me spot flags? I stared, pondering what they might be discussing. They both turned, sensing something—Chloe smiled warmly, but her friend snorted and marched toward me. I winced; it felt like I'd accidentally summoned trouble.
---
If someone asked me to sum up a classic bitch in one word, I'd say "Sasha Bennett." She was easy on the eyes, but listening to her or talking to her? Pure headache torture. A rare thorn with a perpetually tilted chin and a sneer, acting superior and bold enough to announce it.
I used to argue with her, but as my nerves dwindled, it felt pointless. Her head seemed devoid of brains—just rigid circuits running on dogma, unshaken by logic. My arguments smashed against them like a brick wall. Someone might reprogram her, but not me.
So, I kept contact minimal. Two things stopped me from cutting her off entirely: she was Chloe's friend and our group's monitor.
- "Why're you staring at me?" Sasha opened with her usual jab.
"You're paranoid," I replied.
She shot me a icy glare.
- "Get out your wallets! You two are the last holdouts."
Sasha also moonlighted as our group's unofficial extortionist, always after my cash.
- "For what now?" Ethan sighed.
- "Katya's birthday," she snapped. "Not my fault we've got three in a row. People chipped in for yours too."
Same spiel every time. I flashed back to that gaudy leather wallet—pricey, tasteless, long lost somewhere at home. Officially a "group gift," but it felt like I'd bought it myself on a year-long installment plan, still paying it off.
- "I don't get why we do this," I grumbled. "Let friends celebrate friends."
- "I don't get your problem," Sasha said, pointedly. "Real guys aren't stingy with girls—they're generous. Got an issue with that?"
I nearly said real generous guys spend on *their* girls, not everyone.
- "Take my share and give it to whoever," I said. "Look how generous I am!"
Sasha glowered.
- "Why're you always a dick? Just fork over the damn two hundred bucks!"
After Scarlett's prawns and mussel soup, that's all I had left.
- "What, I'm stuck hearing you whine all university?" She crossed her arms.
"Maybe we'll get a new monitor," I quipped.