Juice for Juice

Author Note: Hey everyone, been a while since I submitted anything. This was in the works for a while and I hope you enjoy it. I like to think I'm improving my craft, so any ratings and comments—even anonymous—are more than welcome. Thank you for reading this. I love you.

Content Warning: incest-adjacent moments, noncon-adjacent moments. No actual incest or noncon. Unfortunately, some sex essentialism, hopefully outweighed by the story's overarching plot and gender politics. Also, there's some cheating, and a LOT of ambiguously ethical nonmonogamy. Cheers!

#

I rang up the customer while Bethica started the blender.

"Alright, so for the cookie that'll be two-fifty plus tax makes it two-seventy-three, and the medium peach raspberry will be one load."

I felt the heat radiate off of the man as his cheeks flushed. This was his first time at Juice For Juice. I could tell without looking, of course—my sexual memory is perfect—but there's a certain flustered pattern that first-timers have, the doubt in the eyes, the shaky hand rummaging for seventy-three cents. I smiled at him reassuringly, and let his hand linger in mine as I collected the change.

Through the skin-to-skin contact, I caught a flurry of glimpses into his predilections. None of it was too useful. My powers are limited by my muddled heritage, and it was really just a series of incomprehensible flashes. But even without acquiring meaningful insights, the transfer had a purpose: it proved to the customer that this was real. I was not pranking him. The evidence of my monstrosity calmed him, and he made eye contact with me for the first time since walking into the store.

The blender roared on in the background.

"So—"

"You're good right there," I said.

I dropped to my knees and crawled under the counter. The man smelled good, which is to say nutritious. The day was young, and I was hungry. Without any ado, I unzipped his fly, fished his cock out, and guided it into my mouth. He stifled a groan as his cock grew between my lips. I played with it a little, teasing the tip with my tongue, enjoying the sensation of it swelling. I put one hand around the base and gripped the customer's hips with the other. I rocked him in and out of my mouth, fucking my face with him. As he probed the back of my mouth, I felt my own arousal surge, and remembered where I was.

This was work.

It was always easier as the day went on to maintain professionalism, but the first few blowjobs of each shift were a test for me. It was hard to shrug off the ancient conflation of feeding, lust, and love. But shrug it off I did.

I wrapped my tongue around the customer's shaft and milked him. He gasped as I wrung him dry, collecting spurt after spurt of semen in my mouth. I drew back, swallowed, and put his cock back in his pants. Bethica handed him his smoothie as I backed up on my knees. Not a minute later I was standing behind the counter again, prim and proper.

"Sir," I said, smiling warmly, "would you like a loyalty card?"

He had a dazed look on his face. First-timers often got that. He nodded. I put the first stamp on a fresh card and handed it to him with two hands.

"On your tenth visit, you'll receive any small or medium smoothie for free."

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Why would I want that?" he asked.

I understood. He'd just had what was probably the best oral sex of his life, and he was looking forward to more. But life isn't just about male ejaculation.

"Perhaps you'd like to treat a lady friend, or an underaged acquaintance," I suggested. "Or anyone else who can't pay the normal price. Also, you never know. Maybe someday you'll want a smoothie and you won't feel like feeding us."

He blinked and squinted like he was trying to imagine a future in which he didn't want to put his cock in my mouth.

"Well, thanks," he said.

I waved as he turned and left. "You have a wonderful day."

The man's semen settled into my core, my second load of the day, hopefully of many.

#

As a half-succubus, I didn't need jizz the same way full demons did—specifically, I wouldn't die without it—but I needed way more than a full demon would to maintain what powers I had. My mom could drain my dad and be good for the day, but I needed a more constant stream of sustenance or my magic would fade. My childhood friend Bethica was in the same boat.

Life would go on if we "normalized," as Mom calls it. Lots of half-demon kids do this, apparently. They lose touch with the source of their powers and become normal people. And that wouldn't have been the end of the world for us: Bethica's main passion in life was smoothie concoction, and mine was reading detective novels. We didn't have to be endlessly horny sex demons to pursue those passions.

But the summer we were fifteen, when Bethica's parents and mine took a joint vacation to the lake and we snuck off one day to fuck for the first time, we agreed that we wanted to do whatever it took to maintain our powers. The next summer, we began scheming.

And seven years later, we finally opened our little shop in East Fortune, just an hour up the coast from Angels.

#

We made our smoothies in-house. Bethica came up with most of the menu, hermit-like in her dedication. She would hole up in the kitchen over the weekend with a blender and a few crates of fruit, and the following Tuesday she'd have a new menu item. And it was always good. She had a rare talent with flavors and textures. I like to think our little venture would have done well even without the unusual pricing.

Of course, we needed money, too, to pay rent and keep the utilities going, so we sold cookies and pretzels and so on, all with a ridiculous markup. Our customers never complained, though. Depending on how you looked at it, they were paying a couple bucks for a cookie, a smoothie, and a blowjob—a steal, by most measures, that actually got us in trouble with other sex workers.

#

"Welcome!" Bethica said cheerfully as the woman walked into the store. Things were quiet and I was on break, flipping through Instagram stories on my phone. I looked up, intrigued by the new arrival. Unaccompanied women customers were rare.

"Hi," she said cordially. "Listen, I don't mean this in a karen way, but can I talk to whoever's in charge here?"

Bethica looked over at me, uncomfortable. I sensed her unease, and shared it.

Was this a jilted partner, upset that we'd fed on her man?

Neither of us moved for a second, unsure how to proceed.

"Look," said the woman, "I'm not here for a fight. I get that you have needs and it's cool that you've got a system that works for you. I just want to chat a bit to see if we can reach an understanding."

She introduced herself as Jenn Green, vice president of the Amalgamated Sex Workers. I talked to her in the back room while Bethica rang up and fed on the next customer.

"We try to ensure no one's taken advantage of in our trade," Jenn explained. "At least locally, you know. So there're standardized price ranges for different services, and you're really undercutting us on oral."

"It's not like it's a service we offer for a price," I objected.

"I get that," Jenn insisted. "But I'm looking for common ground, here. You suck cock for a living, and so do my union comrades. Fuck, you should join the union."

I frowned at that, but Jenn pushed on. "Hell, you could charge our feeding rates."

"Feeding rates?"

"It's a niche fetish, but there are clients who pay to hand-feed our workers. It actually pays better than just blowjobs."

If material wealth had meant more to me, if it had meant more to Bethica, we'd have already been in the ASW, fucking for cash and sustenance. But ultimately we wanted to sell top-shelf smoothies, and we wanted to do it together, in our own way. The union was awesome—I'd been affiliated with them briefly during college, and had a lot of great encounters under their protection—but it also imposed a bunch of regulations that just didn't make sense for a smoothie shop.

"I'm not saying we're not sex workers," I said, trying to choose my words carefully, "because it's an honorable industry and one that I may still return to in my lifetime. But right now we're in the smoothie business, and let's be honest, we wouldn't have the customer base that we have now if we charged your service rates per smoothie. I'm sure we'd have enough business to stay afloat, but at the end of the day Bethica wants to serve her smoothies to as many people as possible."

Jenn took out a pad and pen and began jotting down outlines of different business plans. We could affiliate with the ASW, suck cock all we want as sex workers, and then just give out free smoothies. I stopped her with a hand over hers.

"This shop is her dream," I said.

Rather than doing a garbled reading of Jenn's desires through our touch, I did my best to show her mine. Fucking my best friend in the shallows at fifteen, chasing a nostalgic closeness by entwining our fates in a shared venture, subsuming my dreams for hers, remaining together forever even though Bethica never returned my feelings. I became sad as I realized what I was showing Jenn, and she squeezed my hand.

"It's okay," she said. "I'll go back to the membership and ask for direction on how to handle this. I don't want to hurt you, and I still think we can reach some kind of compromise."

Her reassurance was mechanical. She didn't care about me, and I sensed the impending picket against our store.

"We can delineate our services further," I said.

Jenn raised an eyebrow.

"We really don't serve a blowjob the way your workers do," I explained. "We really don't. It's cock out, thanks for the meal, enjoy your smoothie. Sure, it's enjoyable—it would be stupid not to make it fun—but it's not about the customer's needs, which is really the opposite of your business."

"Go on."

"We'll put up signs. You can collaborate on the wording. We'll have a policy that if you're not here for a smoothie, we won't accept payment. I don't know, that's not the best way to put it. But like, people who come just to get off, we can weed them out and send them away. And we can put up signs that refer folks to AWS services if that's what they're looking for."

"I think I see what you're saying." Jenn thought about it for a moment. "Basically, you'll clarify that what you're doing is not provision of oral sex?"

"We don't want to undermine you," I insisted.

Jenn looked me up and down. "Let's try it," she said at last.

My hand was still in hers, and I felt a familiar tingle.

"I guess you have to get back to work," she murmured.

My break was long over, and I just nodded. I didn't want to fuck Jenn. Well, I did. I wanted to fuck everyone. All the time. But there was a part of me—the anxious part of me, the part of me that clung to Bethica for dear life—that occasionally remembered consequences. With Jenn it wouldn't be feeding, it would just be fucking. For a full succubus, any sexual intimacy granted some amount of sustenance, but for me the stuff outside of base feeding provided only pleasure. And while I was sure that Jenn would feel good in my arms, and that her tongue would feel good on my pussy, there was that red flag in her disingenuous reassurance earlier. I didn't want to complicate things further.

Disappointed but officially mollified, Jenn left the shop. Over the next week we tested various wordings to clarify that we weren't a sex shop, even if we were a shop in which sex happened constantly. The Amalgamated Sex Workers never bothered us again, though I did hear later on that they developed an option where an escort would take a client to our store and role play a desired reaction—jealousy, outrage, compersion—as we collected the customer's seed.

#

For the most part, our operation was pretty smooth. I kept the books and Bethica helmed farmer relations. She had a coterie of local Southern Stewardland orchardists who gave us great rates, and we had a nice rent-controlled, council-owned store, and we stayed afloat. Beside the potential conflict represented by Jenn Green's visit, most of our days passed in a blur of satisfied customers and full bellies. There were rockier times, of course. One season, Stewardland was in drought, and the fruit haul just wasn't as good. And I'll admit we didn't always make it on our own. At one point, Yelp tried to extort us for the cash they assumed we were making as hookers. Thankfully, my mom is one of Hell's best lawyers and she fully got us out of that scrape.

Then there were the day-to-day troubles and scares, but we dealt with those as they came up, in-house.

#

I was running my tongue over the crown of a customer's cock, savoring the man's precum, when Bethica knelt down beside me and quietly oinked in my ear. I pulled back and looked up. A police officer had entered the building. He was looking around the shop, his expression concealed behind mirror shades.

I didn't excuse myself politely because, again, I wasn't servicing the customer—he was feeding me. I just stood up abruptly, leaving his fully-erect cock hanging out of his jeans.

The cop turned to me, feet shoulder's width apart, thumbs tucked into his belt. "Elistina Matthews?"

"How can I help you?"

"We're going to need you downtown," he said. His voice was hard.

"Is she under arrest?" My customer looked confused.

There was an assumption, I believe, with our open attitude and clear policies, that everything we were doing was above board. Our customers didn't see Juice For Juice as a shady business. They knew that me and Bethica were monsters, that our load collection was nourishment. We paid our rent and our taxes. We had our most recent health department inspection posted on the wall. The signs about our relationship with the sex workers' union probably lent further credence to the idea that we were operating within the law.

And this was all intentional. Bethica and I wanted our customers to feel safe, like this was just another friendly establishment on the block. The comfort of that illusion improved the quality of our customers' loads. But it was, at the end of the day, an illusion—and one that I was going to use every ounce of my magic to maintain.

"No," said the cop, smiling disarmingly as he checked his watch. "I think I got confused. Have a nice day, y'all."

And he turned on his heels and left.

My powers are a fraction of those of a full succubus, but that fraction is concentrated in illusions, charms, and suggestions. My magic worked, scrambling the cop's brain and ensuring that he wouldn't report anything troublesome. It worked, but—

"Stina!"

Bethica appeared next to me again, holding me up. My knees were buckling. I felt faint, and hot. It was mid-afternoon, and I'd already eaten a huge amount of cum today, but the pit in my stomach howled. Any significant expenditure of my power burned through my reserves at an alarming rate. My mom told me growing up that my magical metabolism was significantly higher than normal, which might be a useful thing if I were a full succubus trying to kill lots of people with some sick combination of sex and magic, but was in reality just a handicap on top of my human blood.

"She needs cum," Bethica said, addressing the room. I could make out the panic in her voice, and it warmed my heart.

The customer I'd been serving when the cop came in, cock still out, raised an eyebrow and a hand.

With Bethica's help, I lay down on the floor. I pulled at my tights, but didn't have enough strength. Bethica ripped them for me at the crotch. Her hands down there, pulling at the fabric of my clothes and opening me up, instantly got me soaked. She tugged my panties to the side.

"What's going on?" asked the customer.

The other people in the room—folks who'd already been served and were enjoying their drinks, folks who had been in line—were also befuddled.

"It's a succubus thing," Bethica said quickly. "It's not a problem, but she needs cum in her pussy, and she needs it fast. Do you mind?"

"The reward," I reminded her faintly.

"Oh, yes, of course." We'd worked this out in advance. Everything in Juice For Juice was transactional. "Sir, if you do this, we will stamp the rest of your loyalty card."

He didn't really look like he needed an excuse to plant his still hard cock in my obviously glistening wet pussy, but he nodded as if this offer clarified the situation. He knelt down on the floor between my legs.

"You want this?" he asked.

"Desperately," I murmured.

You're probably familiar with the concept of recency bias. The latest experience in a given category maybe trumps the average memory of experiences in that category. You haven't eaten a burger in a while, and you go to In-n-Out, or whatever, and it's super tasty? And you're like, "this is the best burger?"

My mom says it's not like this for her, and probably not for other full succubi, but Bethica has said she relates. For me, the recency bias, when it comes to penis-in-vagina sex, is absurdly strong.

Whatever cock is in me is the best cock I've ever had.

And it was no different this time as my customer slid the tip of his dick between my labia. I needed it so badly. I don't know how much of it was that I'd burnt all my magic on the cop and just needed cum on a primal level, but I was wetter and hornier than I could ever remember being. My professionalism was out the window, abandoned in the face of my need. I desired cock, I desired cum. I imagined what it would feel like to have my customer fill me with his seed and I begged him to fulfill that image. I cried sexy nonsense at him as he pushed deeper and then fucked me, every stroke smoother than the previous. The edge of his head rubbed my g-spot and I squirmed in pleasure.

It felt great, tremendous. He fucked me and fucked me. I squeezed down on him, looking to milk him. I hungered. He persisted.

"You've impressive stamina," Bethica told him when he'd been pounding me for over two minutes.

It was true. I was able to have longer sexual encounters, but when I tried, I could make most cocks come in under a minute. I was a sex demon, after all. How was this rando resisting me? And more importantly, why?

"Go ahead," I begged. "Please just do it."

"Yeah, don't hold back," Bethica urged. I felt myself tightening as she attended to my needs. "I'm sure this feels great for her, and you're doing a good job, but that's really not the point, she just needs you to spurt as soon as you can."

"I'm trying," said the customer.

I couldn't believe it. His cock was indelibly hard, thick, pulsing. He was trying to come?

"Fuck," he said after a few more strokes. "I'm so sorry, I'm not trying to prolong things. I think it's my new antidepressants or something."

"No worries," Bethica said. "Think you're close?"

"I, I don't know," he admitted, slowing down.

"It's okay," she said, with a hand on his shoulder. Then she turned to the room. "But can anyone else maybe fill her up a little sooner?"

One of our regulars, Dwayne, stepped forward. He was wearing shorts and I could see his biker's calves. Yeah, Dwayne would do. The first guy's cock still inside me, I beckoned Dwayne over.

"My boyfriend says I'm a quick shot, so you shouldn't have any problem," he said with a tongue-in-cheek chuckle.

I gave the cock inside me a last squeeze, not a milking squeeze, but a sympathetic squeeze, a hug from my vagina, a reassurance. Bethica thanked him for trying as he pulled out. Dwayne took his place, dropping his shorts and kneeling down on the floor. He entered me fully in one stroke, I was so wet and ready. My pussy gripped him and he pumped twice before the telltale twitch. I milked him, devouring his cum. His face was a sweet mix of three emotions:

Pride, in giving me what I needed.

Sheepishness, in being a truly quick shot.