I zip my latex devil skirt up to the crest of my lower back and check the mirror. The skirt stops exactly where my spine dimples, framing the heart-shaped plug I slid in an hour ago—black crystal, of course, charged under last night’s waning moon. My tail curls out of a slit I sewed myself (arts-and-crafts major, thank you very much) and the arrow-tip flicks like a cat in heat every time I twitch. I’m twenty-one, technically, but I was twenty-one last century too. Succubus perks.
Tonight the campus smells of cold iron and cheap fog machines. Frat row is a neon artery pumping bass lines and testosterone straight into my mouth. I don’t need to breathe, but I inhale anyway—savor the clove of fear-sweat, the tang of beer, the ghost-note of semen already forming in their balls. Dinner.
Prepping The Harvest
I pop a lollipop between my lips—strawberry, so my tongue stains pink when I flash it at boys. The color makes them think of pussy they haven’t earned yet. I stalk down the sidewalk, hips ticking like a metronome. Every step squeezes the plug and reminds me why I love Halloween: one night I can drop the “sweet coed” act and let the centuries-old slut out to play.
Target One is leaning against a stop sign, scrolling his phone. Polo shirt, khakis, face forgettable but veins ripe. I slide beside him, press my tits to his arm, and purr, “Lost, daddy?” He blinks; the screen reflects in his glasses—my eyes glowing ember-red for half a second. Just long enough. I smell blood rushing south.
“Nice costume,” he croaks. Translation: nice tits.
“Wanna see the tail up close?” I spin, flick the heart plug with a polished nail. He follows, hypnotized.
I lead him behind the Sigma house where dumpsters mask us from the street. My voice drops to velvet. “I’m on a scavenger hunt,” I lie. “Item one: a hard dick.” I unzip him right there, latex gloves snapping on like a surgeon prepping for harvest. His cock springs out—cut, average, already leaking. I paint the pearl over my lips like gloss and sink to my knees.
Priming The Pump
I don’t suck for nutrients yet; that comes later. Right now I’m priming the pump, flooding him with dopamine so the life-force tastes caramel-sweet. I tongue the frenulum, hum a spell older than English. He shudders, grabs my pigtails (fake, but boys love handles) and thrusts. I let him. When his thighs clench I pull off with a pop.
“Not yet, baby. Bring five friends to 66 Crescent Drive before moon-peak. If you’re the first through the door, you get to finish in my throat.” I kiss the tip—spark of dark magic—and zip him up. He staggers away, already texting.
I wipe my mouth, check the time. 10:07. Blood-moon at 11:58. House party needs to swell, peak, and burst by then so I can drink.
The Victorian at 66 Crescent is my AirBnB for the weekend—owner thinks I’m an “influencer” shooting spooky content. I spent the afternoon chalking sigils under area rugs, black-light paint on ceiling beams: runes that will siphon a year of life from every nut busted inside these walls. Sustainable farming, really.
Smell Of Pomegranate And Precum
Lights low, playlist set to witch-house, fog machine hissing like an aroused snake. I light black candles that smell of pomegranate and precum. Doorbell rings.
They arrive in a clump—six costumes, six heartbeats.
Polo boy (already edged).
Basketball forward dressed as a referee (long shorts, longer cock—I checked).
Shy stoner in a onesie (potential wildcard sub).
Professor Harrison, thirty-something, Anthro dept (tried to fail me for “excessive absences”; I want his tenure juice most of all).
Local townie dressed as pirate, eyeliner smeared, bi-curious rum on his breath.
Polo boy’s roommate—track star, virginity badge practically flashing over his head.
I greet them barefoot, wearing only a see-through mesh gown that trails behind me like spider silk. My nipples are rouged; areolas look like targets. “Welcome to the Craft House,” I sing. “Drinks on the table, clothes on the floor.” I clap—charmed lights dim to crimson.
Succubus Has All Her Prey
They hesitate. Six sets of eyes devour me, but masculinity is a fragile currency; nobody wants to strip first. So I do what any bratty succubus would: I lift my gown overhead and stand bare, plug twinkling, pussy waxed smooth except for a tiny pitchfork-shaped landing strip. “Your turn,” I whisper, tail flicking against my own thigh.
Clothes drop like leaves. Cocks rise like worship. I parade between them, dragging fingernails across chests, leaving red trails that heal instantly—my aura knitting skin so they’ll never remember scars, only addiction.
I kneel in the center. “Circle,” I command. They obey. Six shafts orbit me—different colors, curves, veins. A bouquet of mortal desperation. I start clockwise: lick the stoner through his flap, suck the track star until his knees knock, deep-throat the pirate until eyeliner runs down his cheeks like tar. Every time my mouth seals around a crown, I inhale. Not air—time. Microscopic filaments of their life unravel, coil through my tongue, and pool behind my eyes in starburst gold.
I edge them ruthlessly. When Professor Harrison swells, ready to burst, I pull off and blow cold air. “Not yet, teach. Extra credit if you last till the end.” His thighs tremble.
Choose A Hole
I rearrange furniture: vintage couch becomes altar. I drape myself over the back, ass high, tail unplugged with a wet pop. “Choose a hole, gentlemen. Rotate every minute—clockwise again, fair is fair.”
They scramble. Stoner slides into my cunt first, moaning at the scalding heat. I squeeze—kegel spell contracts around him like velvet vise. He lasts twenty seconds, pulls out gasping. Referee takes his place, bigger, stretching me gloriously. Harrison fills my mouth, salty precum mixing with my strawberry lipstick. I suck hard, slurp his youth in audible gulps.
Moans echo off chalked sigils. Runes glow violet under the rug every time a boy bottoms out inside me. Energy harvests at 42%.
I let them swap. Virgin track star enters my ass—tight, hesitant. I reach back, spank him. “Fuck me like you hate tuition prices.” He pistons, surprise converting to animal need. My eyes roll; the life-force river roars.
Minutes blur. I’m airtight—cock in cunt, cock in ass, cock in mouth, two fists pumping the extras. Spit-roast succubus, star of the semester. Every thrust yanks another filament of time: their twenties, their future heartbeats, the gray hair they would’ve grown at forty—all of it funneling into me, crystallizing in my womb like honey-diamonds.
At 70% I feel the bloom: my skin incandesces, veins illuminate sapphire. Boys mistake it for sweat-sheen, lick me harder. I laugh around Harrison’s shaft, vibrations pushing him dangerously close.
Nut At The Same Time
11:55. Almost moon-peak. I need them to nut simultaneously so the sigils trigger a closed loop—no energy leaks, campus doesn’t notice five guys aging a decade in one night. I whisper the final cantrip, voice layered with centuries of sex and smoke. “Stroke together. On my mark, empty everything into me. First one to stop loses his soul.” Hyperbole, but fear sharpens edge-play.
They line up: two in my pussy (double-vag, thank you witch-lube), one in ass, one in mouth, two jacking across my tits. I count down from ten, milking with every muscle I own. On one the living room explodes—groans, ropes of cum painting me white, black, translucent. Sigils blaze, suck every spurt into the floorboards, transmute jizz into life-currency. I scream—not human, all siren—and the windows frost over.
They collapse, skin dull, eyes ringed. I stand, cum cascading between my breasts, over the plug gap now empty. I lick a stripe off my wrist and taste centuries. 100%.
Ritual Success
I snap—latex outfit re-materializes over my gleaming body. Candles snuff. Playlist dies. I kneel beside them, gentle now. “You were perfect,” I coo, kissing each forehead. They’ll wake tomorrow with hangovers and vague memories of the hottest orgy of their lives. They won’t notice the premature crow’s-feet, the slight lag in their sprint times, the way beer tastes like tap water forever after.
I walk outside as the blood-moon sets. My skin glows youth-bright, charged for another year. Somewhere down the block next October, a fresh crop of freshmen will wear costumes and fantasies. And I’ll be back—Kylee, craft-succubus, honors student by day, soul-milker by night—ready to grade their performance with my tongue.
Trick or treat, boys. I’m the treat that tricks you.
Call Me On Niteflirt Click Here!
Leave a Reply