Brett and the Succubus

She parked her car and stared at it. Tiny red house with peeling paint sandwiched between a vacant lot and a much nicer Tudor style. It surely wouldn't be the most horrific place she's gotten fucked in, but it wasn't a landslide victory, either.

There was the apartment building with the leaky roof over the exact spot where Galloway lurched into her. Dining room over an old table. Drip. Drip. Thrust. Thrust. Real talkative, that one. As if she was unaware of the fact he was nailing his boss and it was "amazing" and wanted her to tell him she felt the same.

"Just get on with it," she had said.

He smiled and knotted a handful of her hair in his fist. "Want to play it like that? Fine." He pulled her up an inch from his face, close enough to smell the cheap vodka and canned soup he ate for dinner.

It would have been easy to push him away. A simple flick of the wrist. He needed an outlet though. One night and he would be hers forever, so she breathed through her mouth and let him have his fun. There was nowhere else for her to move that wasn't a river. That was unfortunate; having to actually look at that old man have his way with her to avoid the rusty water instead of pretending she was some place warm or only soaked because she tore him apart.

They were all like that. Unappealing and as erotic as geriatric porn.

A week after the flood she was in an RV that Sullivan had parked in a parcel of land on his sister's property. No shower or running water, but she didn't think about how unsanitary it was too much, not after the water boarding incident, not considering Randy was over three hundred pounds and moved so hard behind her the flat wheels on the one side became airborne.

Still, she got wet. The lone workout of his year had caused the sweat to pour out of parts he himself hadn't seen in years.

"Where do you use the bathroom?" she asked after he was through.

"Inside my sisters. Go ahead, go around the back," he replied, naked and covered in greasy slime.

Nice lady, and somehow even larger than her brother.

The interior of tonight's job had already been scouted. Standard poor decor. Not dirty, just depressing. No known water issues. She would have preferred the littered patch of city wilderness next door. You never know what you may find in a habitat equally suitable for ditching murder weapons and light opiate gardening. They never took as long in public, either. No one wanted to be caught out in the open with such humble equipment.

Her attire was not outdoor appropriate. Not tonight. She called her outfit "retro slutty" and it didn't mix well with damp fall, and if she could try for a single goal this evening, it would be to stay dry.

"Let's put the cherry on top," she said, clicking on the dome light to apply a shade of lipstick she bought at the drug store labeled "Apple Sunday." She puckered and her uniform was on. Time to go to work.

Samantha Turner was the supervisor of the underwriting department for the Buffalo branch of Davis Auto Insurance. Her duties included overseeing day-to-day operations and, according to her employment contract, "spear-heading team-building activities." She hated that line. Then again, it probably looked better on a piece of paper than "get employees addicted to the taste of death so she and her husband can settle down and stop moving every six months."

It wasn't that it was incorrect. She certainly had built a team. Four after tonight. The phrase screamed "perky secretary" more than a collector of slaves. That was her true job.

She still supervised the drones forty hours a week. The unknowing she had not yet turned respected her, the ones she did feared her retribution and craved her attention once more. Numbers were good, corporate downstate was happy, but Mr. Turner was tired of living from Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes.

The target's wife had left for her weekly night of "cards with the girls," which was code for drinking wine with friends, about twenty minutes ago. Routine. Creatures of habit, both of them. He'd be in the front room droning over the television. Car auctions of makes and models he would never afford, nodding in and out of boredom sleep until being woken up by the sound of keys scraping against the lock. The deal had to close by midnight, the average time she returned home stumbling through the hallway reeking of grapes.

Knock knock.

He opened the front door - a thin old thing with a cracked frosted window - and dropped his coffee cup.

She flicked her foot away at the hollow pop of ceramic splitting without breaking eye contact. Steam rose from the wood of the porch and traveled up the curves of her legs covered only by thick stockings. It soothed the goosebumps from the cold night.

The beginnings were nice. All but one man she had encountered were single or settled for women far less attractive than their ceiling. Her body had gotten attention since the turn of the century and although she would not have considered herself to be vain, it was refreshing to be thought of as pretty before reduced to an object of lust.

"Samantha?" Brett asked before crouching and scooping up the stained white shards. His breath replaced the brown liquid as comfort on her skin.

"Nothing gets by you." He stared at the hemline of her short skirt. "Enjoying the view?"

She studied him for weeks before going in for the strike as she had always done with great success and concluded that Brett Ellison was a simple man. In to work ten minutes early, kept socializing to a bare minimum, and never questioned her authority as his boss. He drove an economic sedan with good gas mileage, mid-thirties, decent enough looking to have a pretty wife by comparison to his co-workers but no kids.

His online presence was absent, a holdout to the old ways of communication. This was promising. Brett would change in the coming hours and the fewer people he interacted with the better. Less to notice the new him.

All but the woman, but if the conversations Samantha had eavesdropped on card night two weeks ago were any sign, any change would be welcome.

"Just leave him if you're that bored," one girl said.

"I can't. I love him but he's so boring," Mrs. Ellision replied.

"Have you tried to spice things up?"

"No. I don't think he would be okay with that."

Mrs. Ellison looked pretty enough in the pictures on his desk. A little shorter than him, nice smile, long black hair she kept behind her like some beehive with what appeared to be a crochet hook.

This woman had options. Did she not know she needed not live her life sharing a bed with someone who'd rather watch an engine being revved on screen? But she knew where to find answers.

An underwear drawer never lies.

Samantha looted it on their weekly date night, Thursday. Plain cotton briefs, nothing special. Satin nightgowns with hemlines above the knee but not by much. She appeared as a mirror of her husband. Sensible. Safe.

That was until the stack of vintage skin books were found in the bottom under some old bras.

The ink was faded but pages were crisp, filled with girls that could have been straight from the metal and early rap music videos of the time. Big hair. Lingerie that went high on the hips.

Her sexual identity was outdated by twenty years, and that's something she was familiar with. Brett was used to leather and lace being the go-to move when his old lady needed a good toss, but he'd never seen her interpretation. He hadn't laid eyes on retro slutty.

She wandered through the rest of the house after the reconnaissance was complete. Tacky, to be honest. Mismatched furniture. Wallpaper with flowers. Stuffy.

Jesus stuff everywhere, which made sense. The story around the office was they had met at a Christian bible camp for Christ's sake.

This posed the only roadblock in her plan. It had been quite some time since she had to impregnate the constitution of a highly religious man. It had been successful for her in the past, but that was a lifetime ago.

There used to be stares from neighbors, gossip, curtains drawn to the side by the handful on the block that knew when the women went grocery shopping or the men fled to the bar.

It was a task just to get them alone in a way that made sense. Then, she would have to crack the nut. She certainly couldn't be standing at the threshold of a married mans house wearing the half naked bulls eye.

The only 'amen' from her was for the new age of people not knowing or giving a shit who lived next to them, and an easy entrance for the lock standard slave by sex method of turning a normal human into an all-you-can-eat buffet.

"Is- how can I help you?"

"It's not about how you can help me, but about how I can get you out of that rut of yours."

"Rut? What rut?" Samantha made typing motions with her fingers. His eyes grew wide. "Have you been reading my emails?"

"I have."

He retreated and leaned against the edge of a recliner, dropping the garbage on the cushion. "That's between me and my therapist."

"Don't care," she said, stepping inside and sliding off her thin leather jacket.

The men are most different. Over the decades more and more immoral, open to corruption by the most basic of sins. Morality went out the window when a mini skirt and cleavage came gift wrapped. They would never change about discussing their feelings though. Heaven forbid anyone finds out that tears ever ran along a bearded chin.

He felt the same as her. "Trapped" was the word he used most in his emails to that quack. If he would have just spent the money he sent for sessions on a nice makeover for her and a vacation somewhere tropical, he might have been too happy for her to be there.

Women were never shy in that situation. They'll tell anyone who listened that their old man was crap in bed, or lost the lone romantic bone he had left, and they never had to pay for it because their sounding board was another woman working pro-bono for their turn to vent.

The only similarity was this: the last person on the planet they would ever be honest with was each other.

He looked to her legs, then stomach.

They all did that. It took years to unlearn the reflex of covering with her hands.

"They're called abs," she said. "There are muscles behind the inflatable tube most people have in that region and when your body is below a certain body fat ratio they pop out for the world to see."

"I'm aware of that."

"You sure? I seem to have to explain that to a lot of guys."

"Why are you in my house?"

She peeled off her top, careful to not get it caught on the mass of teased follicles cemented by hairspray and held it tight. A flash of skin he couldn't see. It was a white tank she found at a second hand store made of thin soft material. The original plan was to have him focus on the outline of her nipples hard from the cold but had forgotten that Brett liked to keep his thermostat just south of napalm and didn't want to sweat.

"That's not the question you're looking for."

He rubbed his face. "Why have you been spying on me?"

She let it fall out of her hands and cupped herself with her palms. "You're right there. Come on. I have faith you'll get it."

Brett launched to his feet. "Enough." The recliner toppled to its side. Samantha gripped herself tighter. "I don't know what sick game you're playing but I'm calling the police and reporting you to HR first thing in the morning. Now get out of my home before my wife finds you here like this."

He was inches away, fists clenched, the vein in his forehead just below a receding black hairline throbbing.

She should have seen this coming, this display of quasi dominance. His home, his old-fashioned sense of power within it. It probably happened every few months. Little lady stepped out of line, spent too much on sewing supplies or whatever and he had to smite her back in her place.

It was nice to see after observing him at work, and she bet his wife liked it, too.

"Let me guess. On nights you do this performance for the Mrs. she slips into her nicest negligee, the red one with the slit maybe, and tries to make it up to you by being on top."

His fingers relaxed and arms dropped.

"But you don't like it that way. No. It's strictly missionary for you. So you roll over and throw her down before doing your practiced routine."

"How do you know about my wife's clothes?"

"I will let you in on a little secret: that's why she fucks up. To get that reaction out of you. If you were smart, you'd mix it up and add in a wrinkle to the repertoire when she did something you liked. I don't know, made the meatloaf you love. You've trained her to misbehave."

"Have you been breaking into my house?"

She walked past him and tossed her hands in the air. "Which is fine if you like her misbehaving."

"Where are you going?" He yelled to her naked back. "Answer me!"

"The bedroom."

* * * * *

Eighty-one years inside the body of a woman a quarter her age taught her the key to unlocking a man is through stripping. Not in the literal sense - though that sped the process up - but to rip away the armor. The faith, the lies they've convinced themselves are worth suffering over. Break them until they're bare. Then they can be dressed up into whatever she liked.

Their bedroom surprised her. She had expected to find the same cavalcade of clunky mismatched furniture as the rest of the house, but here was a bed frame, two end tables and dressers made of sandy oak. She brushed the top of the foot board with her palm as she sat on the edge and leaned into the stiff mattress. It may have been her old hand-me-down from the Regan years, less the cocaine stacked glass.

One, or both, had a spine problem. There could be no other reason to own a bed that felt like a marble slab.

"No wonder you're so traditional. You'll throw a hip out getting wild on this son of a bitch," she said to no one.

Her favorite game was to see how long it took for the pursuit to happen. It ranged, but more or less a little over a minute.

The egomaniacs were quickest, following in her in like she would dive out of the nearest window even though they thought she was there because she loved mediocre sex from below-average looking men. Then the 'typical' guy, cautious about the free pussy but not stupid enough to question it for too long. Weirdos were next. Ones that probably had two-way mirrors and liked to watch from afar.

Brett would be in the final category.

The few select that had a soul and needed to be taught the world have evolved past them that all of us gladly mortgage our future of whatever beyond awaited for a few incredible years now.

She caught a reflection of herself in the mirror above the taller dresser. She rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh. Not that she felt insecure about how she looked, it was that the person looking back at her was the same for almost a century. Nothing new appeared on her. No wrinkle, skin discoloration, even if things got messy, and a knife slid across her cheek, as soon as she fed this is what she would see.

Endless perfection was boring.

Brett arrived in the doorway about three minutes later and tried not to stare at her chest, only glancing every few seconds. Impressive willpower in her book.

"I want to let you know I've called the police."

"Bullshit."

"What are you, a mind reader now?"

"No. I just know in the history of the world no man has ever called the police because a naked woman was in his bedroom. Attempted murder, robbery, doesn't matter. No clothes, no cops."

"You think you know everything, don't you?"

"You wouldn't believe what I know."

He stepped inside, onto the stained Berber carpet, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. This part was the worst. From desire to action.

"You can ask me the question now?"

"Who put you up to this?"

She snapped her fingers and clapped. "I knew you had it in you."

He let his weight drop next to her. She rubbed his shoulders in soft circles as he folded his hands and leaned forward.

"Life sure is fucked up isn't it?"

"It's something else."

"You see, there are things that exist, and things that don't exist. You know what the difference is, right?"

"Enlighten me."

"Just knowing about it. That's it. Secret of the universe revealed. For example, I've always had this freckle right above my belly button, right here." She pointed to it. "It's always been there. Every time we've had a conversation it's been hiding under my blouse. It was there, but you did not know it existed to you until I showed you."

"Get on with it. What is it you want?"

"That's where things get interesting." She moves her hand up his neck to the base of his skull, pressing on the crease where they met. "It isn't just about what I want, it's also about what you want. Together, we can help each other."

"You hit on all the guys the underwriting department like this?"

"Not everyone. Thank God. Just the ones that I'll need to cover for me from time to time."

"Cover for what?"

"I have a second job that requires a good chunk of my time, and those bosses aren't as forgiving as the ones we share."

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember when I was talking to you about things existing? Well, let's say I'm not human. I used to be like you, and I still almost am, but not all the way. I know what you're thinking: crazy lady breaks into my house, strips naked and tells me she's not human, but I assure you this thing will get a nice bow wrapped on it."

The stiff rug digs into her soles as she made her way to the nail file on his wife's nightstand.

"We're just going get this out of the way because I know it will come up, and for the record, I will not be accepting questions at this time. Now take off your shirt."

"I'm not taking off my clothes."

"I don't want to get any blood on your carpet."

"What?"

"Shirt. Now."

He stood and unbuttoned his blue and black checkered flannel. Slowly, with shaking hands. It was a wake-up call the first few times she did this, all those supposed erotic fantasies scared the living hell out of them.

She took it from him and tilted her head, pressing the tip of the file into just above her eyebrow and drew it across to the other side.

There was a sharp noise. Brett said something, a word or shriek before stopping at the sight of the wound closing after only a few drops of blood dripped down her face.

"No questions. Not human, capeesh?" She said and heaved the shirt into a white plastic hamper. "Just tell your wife you cut yourself on saving. Side note, you will probably want to shave after I leave to make that cover story work."

He collapsed into the mattress, top half of his body frozen stiff. His jaw drooped slightly and his tongue quivered inside his mouth.

She dropped to her knees and crawled to him. It was time to close the deal.

"What if I told you you could be happy? Infinitely happy? Be able to see the world through the perspective of someone of unbridled joy?"

She rested her chin on his thigh and dragged her fingernails along his inseam. "Well you can. All it takes is a simple handshake."

"A handshake?"

"That's it. Then you and I are partners. Until the end. You keep me alive, give me an extra pep in my step, do some extra work for me when I need to step out of the office and I turn you into the man you've always dreamt of."

"If all you came over was for a handshake then why all this?"

"The first time is a bit nuts. You'll have all these endorphins run through you and not know what to do with yourself. Let's be clear: what you see in front of you is a one time only thing so you don't run amok on the town and cause more problems than you're worth. You get the nice me once. After that, you take what you can get."

Brett glanced at his palm, then to her. She arched her back dragging her chest along his on her way up. She extended her palm out barely if he wanted it he would have to make the effort.