tagRomanceSuccubus Statistics

Succubus Statistics



Copyright Oggbashan December 2004/October 2014

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.


I was in real trouble. I had failed the statistics module of my last year and HAD to pass it. If not, I would not get a qualification and I would lose the career I had wanted ever since leaving school.

My employer's patience was running out. They didn't care that everyone on my part-time MBA (Master in Business Administration) course had failed statistics this year. Their only concern was that I, their only sponsored student, had failed. The Personnel Manager's words were direct. 'Fail this re-sit and your sponsorship ends and with it your employment contract.' She showed me the terms of my sponsorship. There it was in black and white. If I fail I will be fired.

I could moan about the changes of statistics tutors and the incompetence of their stand-ins. I could complain that what I was taught bore no resemblance to the required study. I could complain that the examination and the marking were unfair. None of that mattered now. If I didn't pass this time I was a failure.

The pressure was telling on me. Not only did I have to learn what I should have been taught last year but there was this year's work as well. If I failed statistics the work for this year would be useless. If I passed I couldn't afford to be in arrears on this year. I was studying as hard as I could and sleeping badly, tossing and turning with Chi-squares, Student T-tests and Standard Deviations whirling in my head.

My delightful landlady Chloe was worried about me. Her parents had helped to buy the house for her when she came to the university as an undergraduate. She had her First in History, her Master's in Industrial economics and was working on her doctorate at the local University. Her field was the economics of the early 19th Century Great Western Railway (GWR) works at Swindon. If only I'd asked Chloe earlier about statistics. She used statistics as a daily tool. What were mysteries to me are second nature to her. When she heard that everyone on our MBA course had failed statistics she was horrified.

"Why didn't you ask me for help, James?" she'd said. "You know I use statistics."

"I didn't know I needed help until I saw the examination paper," I'd replied sorrowfully. "We were living in false hope. Our tutors told us that we knew enough. I'd even thought that statistics would be one of the easier papers."

"It should have been, James."

When I was told that I could re-sit, Chloe took me in charge. She would give me a master class in statistics three times a week for an hour. I protested. She insisted that she could help. She said that she needed my rent. As a sponsored student I always paid my rent on time, in fact by direct debit. My money paid her mortgage on the house. If I failed, and became unemployed, I would have to return to my parents while I hunted another job. She would be left with a vacant room in mid-year and probably couldn't fill it until next September.

So three times a week we sat with our heads close together at the kitchen table while I learned statistics. If I hadn't been so petrified of failure those sessions would have been delightful. Chloe is a blue-eyed, longhaired blonde with legs that seem endless. Barefoot, she is six inches taller than I am. When she is wearing her heels my head is at her shoulder. Until I had failed, Chloe had been the woman most frequently in my dreams. Now there was no woman in my dreams, only nightmares of statistics.

I hadn't made any passes at Chloe during the previous year. I didn't want to lose my rooms if she had rejected me. Making love to your landlady is dangerous. I had amused myself with a succession of girls who treated me as lightly as I treated them. None had touched my heart and I hadn't touched theirs.

I was beginning to see some sense in statistics but the sense of impending doom was oppressive. I should have recognised that I had real depression and sought medical help. Even Chloe's hair brushing lightly against me didn't lift my mood. Nothing did and my sleep was still disturbed by nightmares.

One evening I admitted to Chloe that I wasn't sleeping well.

"I know, James," she replied. "I hear you walking the floor in the early hours and sometimes you talk in your sleep. Lack of sleep isn't helping you."

That evening she made me a cup of milky cocoa when we finished my lesson. I slept slightly better that night and the cup of cocoa became a nightly ritual even when I didn't have a lesson. After a few nights of cocoa Chloe kissed me on my cheek. I barely responded but that night Chloe briefly figured in my dreams as an angel driving the statistical demons away with a vacuum cleaner.

Next evening Chloe gave me a kiss and a hug. I pecked at her cheek diffidently. She hugged me again and told me to sleep well. I tried. The dream Chloe came and went in a few seconds and I despaired again.

The next evening, over the statistics textbook I admitted to Chloe that she had appeared in my dreams.

"Did I help?" she asked as if appearing in my dreams was a natural thing to do.

"For a few seconds and then the nightmares returned," I replied.

"I'll have to do better than that," Chloe replied. "Tomorrow night we are going to have a meal together and I'll see if I can stay longer in your dreams."

I accepted the invitation to the meal. I was so lost in my own self-pity and despair that I couldn't see what good it would do. How could Chloe influence how long she would be present in my dreams?

The meal passed without me really noticing what I ate. I was so wrapped up in myself that it could have been caviar or fish and chips. Actually it was a goulash served on a bed of rice and washed down with a fiery Bulgarian Red Wine. I noticed the wine. I'd have to have been dead not to. It hit my throat like rotgut whisky. Chloe kept topping-up my glass and she might have opened a second or even a third bottle. The cheese board was accompanied by Slivovitz, Plum Brandy, but I was past noticing what I was drinking.

I think Chloe tried to draw me out but failed. Only one thing penetrated the fear of statistics. She told me she'd changed my bedding. That was odd. I had brought my own sheets and things. Changing my bedding was not part of her duties as a landlady.

At the end of the meal I was drunk and miserable. Miserable because I still had the overwhelming fear of failure; miserable because an evening with someone I liked and secretly wanted had been such a disaster; and miserable because I had been such a poor dinner guest. Chloe seemed unaware of anything except that I was drunk and incapable. She helped me upstairs to bed, stripped me to my boxers and tucked me up in bed. She gave me a luscious goodnight kiss and left me. I dozed off in a combination of drunken stupor and tiredness.

I woke up in the night with a bad headache and a full bladder. I switched on the bedside light, staggered to the toilet and crept back to bed. On the bedside table was a full jug of water, a packet of anti-acid tablets and a note. I was startled. They hadn't been there when I went to bed and I hadn't heard Chloe come in. How had she put them there?

The note read 'Drink plenty of water, take two tablets, and repeat as necessary. Chloe'. I did. I sat on the edge of the bed until the tablets started to work. I switched off the light and crawled back into bed feeling more human. My nose detected Chloe's perfume, perhaps from when she brought the water. Yet it was a strong sensation, more than I would have expected. I held the duvet cover to my nose. Chloe had changed my bedclothes for hers. The duvet cover, pillowcase and sheet were scented by her body. I snuggled down into the bed feeling guilty. Chloe was trying so hard to reassure me.

I dreamed of Chloe's arms around me, my head resting against her soft breasts, her hair stroking my skin. I don't know how long I dreamed of her but the statistical nightmare returned and I awoke in a panic. The rest of the night I was tossing and turning. In the morning I had all the symptoms of a hangover and I was still tired. Chloe had given me some relief but it hadn't lasted. I didn't need to tell her. One look at me was enough.

"Oh dear," she said, "didn't it work at all?"

"It did for a while, Chloe, and I'm really grateful for your help but..."

"...but you are still terrified of the statistics exam?"

"Yes. Perhaps I need professional help, a psychiatrist perhaps..."

"You haven't got enough time for that, James. It would take a month at least to get an appointment and..."

"...the exam is in three weeks' time. What do I do, Chloe? I'm like a rabbit facing a snake. I can't help myself."

"...and so far I haven't helped much."

"You tried, Chloe. I appreciate that. I felt as if you were hugging me last night and I was comforted by your presence but it didn't last."

"Right. Drastic measures are needed and you need help. In the meantime..."

I would have responded. Her lips covered mine. Her arms wrapped around me and hugged me tight. My head nestled against her neck, my face buried in her blonde hair. She pulled me to the settee and pushed me down before covering me with her body. She lifted her T-shirt before pulling my head between her bra-less breasts and smothering me until I had to beg for air. Despite myself I could feel the reaction in my groin. Chloe felt it too. I groaned as her hand eased between our bodies to check my response. Her hand squeezed gently before sliding away.

"At least that part responds as it should," Chloe said. "I am going to change tactics. When you have your tuition tonight you will be breast smothered if you make a mistake and kissed if you get the right answer. Or would you prefer it the other way round?"

She lifted her breasts from my face so that I could answer.

"Either..." I said before her breasts squashed against my face again.

"That's settled then," I heard faintly as I struggled to breathe. When Chloe eventually released me I had to pant for breath before I could speak.

"Are you sure this is wise?" I asked her breasts poised dangerously close to my face.

"No. It seems to be working so I'll keep doing it. You just have to accept it. I'm not giving you a choice, James. You will be kissed and smothered until you lose your fear of statistics. You might be more afraid of me and what I might do..."

Her breasts moved closer.

"Should I scream for help?" I asked nervously.

"No. Any attempt will be stifled like this."

Her arms pulled me deeper between her breasts than I had ever been. I could hear her heartbeat. My senses of sight, touch, smell and hearing were swamped in her cleavage. I opened my lips slightly and tasted Chloe as well. She relaxed her hold slightly so my tongue could explore. I felt her body tense and warm as my tongue caressed. I was drowning in Chloe until she pulled away leaving me wanting more.

My tuition that night was wonderful. Whether I made a mistake or got something right I was rewarded. Statistics tuition took on a whole new meaning. I was learning Chloe's statistics at close hand and the other statistics began to make sense as well. She showed me what she could get from raw death statistics and how statistical tools could point out the unusual incident, the oddity, the unlikely, all of which could lead her to investigate further. Slowly I began to see the point of statistics. That night, wrapped in Chloe's perfume, I slept peacefully for the first time in a couple of weeks.

I was bright the next morning if only by comparison with my normal self. Chloe kissed me before I left for my first lecture and promised more kissing later. I was surprised that her promise didn't distract me from my studies. I had thought it would.

The statistics lecture was as boring and poorly presented as the whole module had been, but Chloe's tuition helped me to begin to understand what the lecturer was trying to convey. There was light beginning to shine through the murk.

As I was walking back at the end of the day I thought I knew why I had been able to concentrate. Chloe would reward me for any improved understanding. I knew Chloe would honour her promise. I didn't have to be nervous about it, to wonder whether she would or she wouldn't. That gave me confidence, a stability. Chloe would kiss me whatever my day was like.

As I entered the hall she grabbed me and kissed. My bag of books dropped to the floor with a thud as her arms wrapped tight around me. She forced my head down into her cleavage and smothered me.

"Like a cup of coffee, James?" I heard her voice faintly through the beating of her heart. I couldn't answer. If I opened my mouth it would be filled with Chloe. I tried to nod. Her hug was too tight. My hands flapped helplessly until she relented. I panted for the breath I'd been denied.

"Coffee?" she asked again. This time I could nod.

On the kitchen table was a familiar small pile of paperwork for my statistics tuition, but also a heap of glossy women's magazines. I had never seen Chloe read anything like them.

"I've raided a neighbour's recycling bin, with her permission," Chloe said. "These magazines are full of surveys. I will use them to show how statistics can be misused and misrepresented. Most actually give their sources and sample size, except the advertisements e.g. this one. 'Nine out of ten women would recommend our product'. If you look at the small print the sample was self-selected from those satisfied with the product, and only 49 individuals."

We spent an hour with those magazines. I hadn't appreciated just how easy it is to tailor presentation of statistics to 'prove' whatever you wanted. There were graphs which showed a massive increase -- until you looked at the scale and realised that the increase was actually less than one per cent of the whole. There were statements that 'Most women prefer taller men' when only twenty women had been asked their opinion and twelve of them said 'taller', six of them said 'height doesn't matter' and two of them said 'I don't know'.

Chloe gathered up the magazines and added them to the pile for recycling.

"I think one of your problems is that your course doesn't include enough practical uses of statistics. Statistics is easier to understand if it has practical uses. Look at this..."

Chloe handed me a list of figures showing the weekly output of wagon wheels and axles from the GWR works in 1851.

"What stands out, James? You don't need to use any formulae."

"This figure, Chloe" I pointed. "It's twice any other week. That's impossible."

"Impossible? No. That's not the right word. Improbable would be better, or perhaps 'statistically unlikely'. But you found it easily, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said doubtfully, "but only because it is so obvious. If it had been only ten per cent higher, I might not have seen it. The variations in the other figures are normally only one or two percent except for the Christmas week."

"The answer is simple. The transcription of the record from the actual recorded output to the manager's report was copied incorrectly. The first digit should have read three, not eight. I looked at the original again and found two more, less obvious, errors."

Chloe produced another printed sheet.

"How about these?"

This paper had no title. It was just a vertical list of 52 figures.

"I would guess that these are weekly, because there are fifty-two, but I don't know."

"Good! You 'don't know'. If you don't have other information, you can't use them, but do you notice anything else?"

"There are very low points," I pointed to them, "here, here and here. The other figures, except this one which is higher than normal, are all within a reasonable range."

"OK, James. Now, if I told you these are sick absence figures for a factory for a year, starting in January, what could you assume?"

I had to think for a few seconds.

"Then I might assume that the three low points are when the factory closes for summer and winter holidays, and the high point might be a 'bug' that affected a large number of employees."

"Nearly right. The high point was actually the week in which the local football team played a match with a Premier League team. The 'sickness' was a large number of hangovers."

"Then could I also assume that the factory has a high proportion of male employees?"

"Yes, you are doing well, James."

She rewarded that improvement with a long kiss. Even as our lips were together I was still thinking about that list of figures. Chloe tapped my face slightly as the kiss stopped.

"When we kiss, James, you are supposed to concentrate on me. You were distracted. Let's try again, and this time remember that you are kissing me."

The next kiss was better. I knew I was kissing Chloe and I gave her my full attention. When we stopped we were both short of breath.

We worked on lists of figures for another hour. I was using statistical formulae easily and frequently. When we broke for an evening meal I felt more confident than I had ever been.

That night my dreams of Chloe were far more frightening than any statistical questions. If I hadn't known she was in her own room, not mine, I would have thought she was in bed with me. But I was her victim. In my dreams she was riding me but impossibly tall. While my tool was clamped inside her demanding pussy, my face was below her breasts. They were just above my head.

Chloe seemed to be a giant succubus, draining me of everything except submission to her. Whenever my erection subsided from exhaustion she continued to pound her hips up and down until I was erect again. If the coupling had been real, I would have been very sore. But this giant Chloe wasn't real. I woke in the morning refreshed and confident.

The next few days followed a similar pattern. I went to the statistics course and the few lectures became more intelligible. I knew what the lecturer was trying to convey.

Each evening the real Chloe continued her master class in statistics, kissing and breast smothering. Each night the succubus Chloe rode me mercilessly.

One evening Chloe and I sat side by side with a pile of previous statistics examination papers. I understood every question, what the examiner wanted, and I could answer each of them easily. Chloe timed me on the last paper. I finished it in less than half the set time and she confirmed that I had answered every question correctly. The forthcoming real examination was no longer an insurmountable obstacle. I could face it with confidence, sure I would pass easily.

But I was less sure that I could endure the succubus Chloe night after night. She was becoming a threat. Her demands were growing. I had no idea of the real time that I spent as her victim but I thought that I was becoming short of sleep.

We were sitting side by side on the settee with our glasses of wine after another evening meal.

"Why aren't you sleeping, James?" she asked.

I blushed.

"I'm dreaming too much, and those dreams are becoming nightmares," I admitted.

"You shouldn't have nightmares about the statistics examination," She said.

"They're not about statistics..."

"Oh. That sort of dream?"


"About me?"

I paused. Should I admit that I was visited by a giant succubus version of Chloe?

"They are about me, aren't they?"

Chloe pulled my head to her shoulder. Her breast was pressed to my side.

"Yes," I whispered against her top.

"Dreams aren't reality," she said. "I think you need a real reward for tonight's progress," Chloe said. "If you don't object, you're sharing my bed tonight."

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