Succubus: Geek Whisperer

Before I died, I was only really any good at two things: playing video games, and giving head.

My parents split up when I was young and my mum couldn't look after me and work at the same time, so for weekends and holidays I was shipped off to live with Gramps, who had retired to a static caravan on the Sandy Shore holiday park. All his worldly goods packed into a six by thirty-foot metal box on wheels, baking in the summer and freezing the rest of the time. When the park closed for those few weeks in the worst of winter, he'd go off on a cruise in sunnier climes. The rest of the time, he had his awkward teenage granddaughter for stroppy company.

Sandy Shore was in the arse-end of nowhere, on the coast but miles from the relative excitement of town. It nestled behind hills of sand dunes, protecting it from the worst of the cold sea wind. It had a clubhouse for evening entertainment, a captive-audience shop that could charge whatever it liked, a swimming pool, a few swings and slides and stuff, and fuck-all else to do. So, most of the time, I sat round the pool writing shit poetry, listening to Metallica or Guns n Roses on my Walkman, or hanging out in the arcade watching the screens. I avoided the fruit machines and penny falls - gambling was a mug's game. I was drawn to the promise of other worlds in the videogame cabinets - God knows my own life was miserable, so I'd take any escapism I could get. Even today I'm drawn to that copper and ozone smell. This was the 1980s, the rise of the video arcade, when ten pence bought you into a different life and your luck and skill determined how long you could live there.

I'd play those machines endlessly, pouring my scant pocket money into dreams of escape. So, day after day, month after month, over the years I became pretty fucking good at them. I preferred the ones you could actually complete - the race games where you'd become champion, the shooters where you'd rescue the girl and fly off in the chopper - rather than the ones that just sent wave after endless wave until you were beaten. That wasn't the message I wanted to hear.

Of course, a girl playing videogames, and playing them well, was bound to draw attention. Having D-cup tits at fourteen didn't help, either. Initially it pissed me off, but over time I kind-of liked being watched, even lusted after. The boys would want to beat me. They probably wanted to fuck me too, but I wasn't interested in that. Not then, at least. I was just a kid.

///

My whole life now is an act. I love being on camera, pretending to be the best and most confident version of myself that I can. Nothing to lose now, right - once you're dead, what could possibly happen that is worse than that? And I'd been given a power; the power to please, and to gain strength from giving and receiving that pleasure. Some might call it prostitution; I call it survival. And the memories...

"You're beautiful", the groom-to-be said. I smiled, and kept on dancing for him in the private room he's paid for with his Kittikat Dollars. Swaying to the music, I unclipped the fastener between my breasts and rolled my hands, teasing him before slowly peeling the sparkly bra away. His eyes glazed over.

Working the strip club was easy money, cash-in-hand; not that the cash was really what I was in it for, but it helped with the rent and meant I didn't have to dip into my Master's funds. The proprietor didn't ask too many questions, which would otherwise have been awkward - the dead don't have bank accounts and don't pay taxes. And I sure didn't look nearly thirty, as my driving license would have stated. So being off the books was fine with me; I was being paid to feed myself, what's not to like?

I grinded my round ass into his lap. I could see him struggling not to grope me. His aura was vibrant; so bright I had to wonder if he was a virgin, out to experience the female form before making his commitment. I respected that. Unrequited virgin lust was an acquired taste, but one I quite enjoyed. I stood and leant forwards, presenting my large tits to his burning eyes. His hands were twitching. Not long now. I tucked my thumbs through the waistband of the matching thong and drew the material over my shapely ass and down my legs. He was transfixed, staring at my pussy with such intensity, as if he were trying to memorise it for a subsequent exam. I threw one leg over his lap and straddled him as he sat in the chair, leant forwards and pressed my boobs against his chest. I could feel his heart beating double-time. I reached up and stroked his face. "Give it to me, baby. Come for me," I pleaded. As he messed his trousers, I tapped his aura and drank the energy that his orgasm released.

When he was spent, I reached over for my underwear and started to pull it back on. He grabbed at my arm. "Sir, please let go. You are not allowed to touch me; those are the rules."

"But I paid for a full session!" he complained. Fuck, I thought, one of those. Skilled though I am, it's hardly my fault that he couldn't last more than 5 minutes.

"Let go," I said, more firmly. But he pulled me back onto his lap, and grabbed my breast. So, I slapped him. Shocked, he let go; I pulled the thong back on and went back into the main room, not stopping to do the bra back up. Everyone out there had seen my tits already anyway.

Later, the proprietor beckoned me into his office. "I'm gonna have to let you go, sweetheart."

"What the fuck...?"

"More complaints. You just can't go assaulting the punters!"

"He grabbed at me. You know the bylaws, or do you want to branch out into running a brothel?"

"What I know is that I can't afford for any of you girls to lose me business by pissing off the customers. And it's hardly the first time. Sorry, but I can't have you here if you can't control yourself."

Arsehole. I took my cash, changed into my street clothes, and didn't look back. Being treated like a sex object was fine, that's my living; but nobody takes advantage of me. Seems I was going to have to find myself a new source of income, and more importantly, a new source of prey.

///

Families would come on holidays to Sandy Shore for a week, or sometimes a fortnight. Some came back year after year, so you got to know their kids and became friends, or frenemies. Some were owners, like Gramps, so were around a lot. That's how I met my Bestie. She was a year older than me, all tall and thin and blonde where I was short and curvy and brunette. During the day she was off with her family or something, but in the evenings we were together, thick as thieves, and we teased and fended off the gangs of boys together.

Being a horny teen trapped in a dead-zone caravan park for the summer sure was an experience. This of course in the days before mobile phones, where a whole world of entertainment is just a swipe away. Then, we made our own fun, and we only had one thing to do - mess about with each other. Every Saturday, a new crop of victims would arrive; by Monday night we'd've paired off, and I'd find myself getting clumsily groped while hiding round the back of the clubhouse, or downing liberated Budweisers and bumming menthol fags off the older kids. All the girls wanted to be Madonna and dressed like cheap prostitutes; the boys in shirts and jeans and too much of dad's aftershave.

During the busier weeks there would be gangs of us, ten or more, and things could get rowdy. Someone would suggest playing those shitty teenage games like Truth or Dare, or Spin the Bottle, and we'd all end up snogging each other. Mostly, the boys had no technique; tongues like a dying fish flapping in my mouth. But not the Bestie. Inevitably the game would come around to us having to snog each other, and we'd pretend to be reluctant, but to me it always felt amazing - both being kissed by her, and the reaction it provoked from the boys. Feeling our boobs mash together, gently rubbing our pussies against each other's hips, as we French kissed, and rode the cat-calls.

I fondly remember, years later, that magic tongue of hers on my clit, while I screamed my orgasm to the sand dunes and the stars. But that's a different story...

The Bestie found it odd that I was a vegetarian. It wasn't a moral thing for me, just practical reality - mum and Gramps had little money, and meat was expensive. There were times years back when maybe on Sunday we'd have a chop or some sausages with our dinner, for special, but that ended when dad walked out. I didn't like the taste of it, which the Bestie thought was so funny. "What guy wants a girlfriend who won't put the meat in her mouth?" she teased. Somewhat ironic, given what was to happen to me.

///

Lust is power. All the strong emotions carry power, metaphysically. And where there is a source of energy, a life form will evolve to feed upon it.

The other thing about life is that it adapts to change. Succubi of pre-modern times would have to travel to avoid discovery, could consume quietly for a while in a location but must move on before they were discovered and rooted out. They'd have to keep travelling, place to place, to get enough nourishment without draining the population. Too easy to arouse suspicion in a small town. You could get lost in a city for a while, but with the advent of organised policing and modern forensics, leaving a DNA trace could prove fatal, particularly for succubi unable to control themselves.

But the modern world brought us a boon. Mass-media offers a way for some of us to present ourselves to a wide audience. Rather than feed individually, we could take sustenance from the masses. Some of us are pop stars, film stars, porn stars, cam girls, stage acts, social media influencers. Receiving lust from a distance is low power compared to feeding from the orgasm you brought a partner - but if you can feed continuously from millions, it adds up to more than you could ever have achieved in person. The more power you can absorb, the more glamour you can project; the hotter you look, the more people want to look at you, the more lust you harvest. A virtuous circle of human nature, and no-one needs to get hurt. Indeed, the point is to bring joy and pleasure.

///

Back in the 80s, before I understood any of this, even then I loved the power that boys' lust gave me. Weeks would go by when I didn't have to buy myself anything - no drinks, no fags, no food. I'd be taken for days out at the Pleasure Beach or mooching along the seafront with candyfloss or toffee apples or ice cream. I'd go roller-skating, or on donkey rides. They'd take me to the water park; they'd love that, watching my boobs bounce around while I was all wet and slippery. It was such a small thing they'd expect of me in return. No big deal.

As the years went by, the boys started to expect more. But even once I was legal, I wouldn't let them fuck me. My life was already in the shitter; the last thing I needed was to get pregnant and thrown out of school as well. Most were happy with regular BJs, and those that weren't? Well, they were gone by the weekend when the next crowd came along. I must have sucked a hundred dicks over the summer - big ones, short ones, hairy ones; black, white and all the colours in between; circumcised and complete. Some boys wanted teeth, some wanted it wet and sloppy, some wanted harder suction, some more tongue action. I learned how to please them all.

I'd seen older girls with tongue piercings, and heard rumour that was because their boyfriends liked the feel of it on their dicks when they were getting sucked off. I had to get me some of that. Someone at the site knew a girl who knew a guy at the tattoo and piercing shack along the front. The chick in charge refused, saying they were gonna need parental permission. But the guy gave me a look. I sneaked back after hours, gave him payment on my knees - his condition was to be the last guy who'd get the all-natural experience - and got myself a nice silver bar with a ball on each end. Once I was healed, I made sure he was the first to try out the new me.

I'd have a new boyfriend every week, and for a while it was fun and exciting. Over time, though, it got boring. When you can have anyone you want, why settle for the slime that's just looking for an easy lay? I started spending more time in the arcades again, honing my skills, watching the crowds. Looking out for a new challenge. I started feeling drawn to the quiet ones, the guys who hid off to the side, who didn't stare when I could see them but looked away. The shy, nervous types. Those, I decided to target. Partly, I knew their language; but mostly, it would be more satisfying - and, perhaps, they'd be more grateful for the attention. I was more than just a mouth with boobs, after all.

///

Maybe you recognise me from somewhere. Have you seen my stream? Maybe you've 'pinned' me on Pinterest, follow my Facebook page, like my tweets, or catch my story on Instagram? Hot gamer girl, hair in bunches with bright pink and cyan hair bobbles, matching lipstick, low-cut crop-tops and short short skirts. You've watched me playing games, retro or modern, and ripping the developers a new one where I think they screwed up. Maybe you saw me at a convention, entering a cosplay contest at a big show, or judging one at a more regional affair?

It's all about building and keeping an audience. Get eyeballs on you, get people loving what you do and wanting to see more. Come watch the cute 19-year-old with the killer rack slaying it at games you can't beat. You think I'm too good to be true, that no-one could be that hot and that talented? Suck it up. Of course I'm good at being the wet-dream girl next door - I've had a quarter-century of practise at it.

///

Teenaged summers came and went. I scraped through college, and got a scholarship to study a BA in Drama. If life had taught me anything, it was to be an expert at pretending to be someone else. But going to Uni meant moving away from everything I'd ever known; from Sandy Shore and the people I'd grown up with there. From the Bestie.

At Uni, I was desperate to fit in. I went to every party, joined every society, tried out every club, and burned myself out in six weeks. I slept with anyone and everyone, trying to find my type. I sucked and fucked my way round the drama group until I'd got such a reputation that the only people who'd go with me were the kind you didn't want attention from.

Eventually I found a home with the LARP crowd. Spending my weekends pretending to be a medieval wench in a fantasy world. I became friends - proper friends - with a small but loyal crowd. That was where I met Steve. Steve was tall, dark, and handsome. Everyone knew Steve, and talked like he'd been around forever. No-one really knew what he did at the Uni; he was an ex-student who still kind-of hung around. He was attractive - butch, ripped, and with this great animal magnetism drawing me in. We started an on-off kind of thing, and I saw him mostly at night. He took me to bars, and then to nightclubs, and then to private clubs in basements. At the time I didn't really notice the transition, but within months we were frequenting hard bars where the clientele wore leather and drank vodka and listened to that kind of music in the uneasy zone between metal and electronic dance. The kind of place, and the kind of people, who encouraged you to take your vodka with coke, and I don't mean cola.

The Bestie came to see me a few times. We'd fuck all day and party all night. She'd had her belly pierced and got a few tattoos, and encouraged me to do the same. I'd already had my tongue done - all the better for that great blowjob experience - but she encouraged me to get done all round my ears. I really got into it, and got my brows, nose and lips done too. The Bestie knew how to push my buttons though, always wanting me to go further. I remember her healing tongue on my nipples after I'd had those done, it drove me wild. For my birthday, she dragged me back to the place along the seafront back home for a "special treat". She'd shaved me smooth before we went; I got a tattoo of a flame round my pussy reaching up nearly to my belly button. At first it hurt, but then I'd started to get into it. Hours passed with the guy staring intently at my pussy as he worked. The attention and continual touching were unbearable. As he stapled the piercing bar through my clit to finish, I came, screaming in pain and pleasure.

I love that tattoo. As a freaky goth chick, at the time it was the only colourful thing about me. All my clothes were black leather or black linen, my make-up was black, and I was pale as fuck. The vegetarianism kept me thin, gaunt even. But that flame was my pride, my secret.

Steve freaked out when he found out about the piercings. He said I'd regret it. I didn't know what he meant, at the time.

///

I'd spent too long partying and not enough studying. I was out of money, out of luck, out of time. I'd pissed off the LARP crowd with my brooding and poor attitude. I had no-one left to bum a drink off, or a hit, or even who'd trade a blowjob for a line or a sandwich. I'd failed my first-year exams and would have to go around again. I was on a downer; heroin withdrawal left me in a bad place. I realised my life had amounted to nothing, and I'd just let people use me then toss me aside. No-one cared for me, and I decided I didn't care about myself either.

I set the bathroom up like a ritual. Black candles all around, dancing in the gentle breeze from the open window. I lay back in the water, listening to my music, and washed the paracetamols down with a goblet of red wine. Then, while I still had the nerve to do it, I took the sharpened ornate antique dagger, and shoved it right through the weak flesh between the bones of my arm, just under my wrist. I screamed; turns out I didn't know pain, after all. As the lyrics of Metallica's "Fade to Black" gave way to the long instrumental outro, I watched the water turn red, then black, and then the darkness boiled in from the edge of my vision, and consumed me.

///

When I woke up, I couldn't remember anything about the bath. As I regained consciousness, all I knew was that it was bright, far too bright. My ears were burning; so were my eyes, my tongue, my belly-button, my nipples, my clit. Fuck, what had I taken last night? It was really irritating. I went to scratch, but found my arms had been lashed down. So were my legs. That woke me with a start. What the fuck was going on?

I squinted and looked round the room. There was a candle burning beside the bed, it must have been like a million watts. Thick velvet curtains covered the small window. A man watched me from a chair in the corner of the room. I couldn't see his face, but somehow - by smell? - I knew it was Steve.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, and shuffled over. He was smiling,

"The fuck is this? Untie me you shithead!"

Steve shook his head.

"Is this one of your sick fantasies? 'Cos I'm really not in the mood, and my pussy is burning." My mouth was on fire too. That must have been some really heavy shit I'd taken. If that bastard had raped me while I was out, I was going to be so pissed, and him so dead.

He raised an eyebrow, quizzically, and I saw him glance over to the bedside cabinet. On it were short burned and twisted bits of silver. I didn't realise what I was looking at, until I recognised the gem that had been on my belly stud in that twisted wreckage. "We need to talk," he said.

"No, you need to untie me and let me go," I said. He sure did have a pretty face though. I found myself staring at him, really seeing him for the first time. There was a vein on the side of his neck, and it was throbbing. I could count his pulse just by watching him.

God, I was hungry. I'd never felt so empty. And dizzy. "You've got to get me something to eat."