Succubi Short Story: Chapter 1
Wellington & Pierce Financial.
One of the last legacy money firms. Profitable. Prestigious. Powerful.
For decades, Olson Apex Strategies tried to acquire them.
Or destroy them.
Dominic Gordon did the unthinkable.
He “stole” a sovereign client account.
Same services. Better charm.
An insult to the Olsons.
He gets an executive promotion.
He does what most do.
Celebrates until the lights give up.
New penthouse. Expensive. Elaborate. Exclusive.
Towering above San Francisco’s Financial District.
22nd floor.
Night. Clear sky. City glowing as if it’s on fire.
Fair-weather friends. Colleagues.
Cocaine. Alcohol. Music.
The whole late-capitalism baptism.
Seraphine Luxen delivers the women.
The inner circles know her for that — and for things never spoken aloud.
Nine women. Young, yet seasoned.
Seductive. Sensual. Serene.
Six of the nine circulate the party.
One plays closet games.
One kneels in the kitchen.
Several dance.
A female colleague proves she’s “one of the boys” with a strap-on.
Dominic is in the master bedroom.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
The skyline spread beneath him like conquest.
The remaining three women: Destiny, Elira, Parisa.
Parisa is the most confident.
Destiny the least.
Destiny is the last to undress.
Dominic chooses her first.
He bites an illegal stim-shot capsule.
Fast-release stimulant. Popular cocaine chaser.
Instant rigidity.
He grabs Destiny, throws her on the bed, legs over her head, and enters with a grunt.
She clutches the sheets. Her eyes flick to Parisa — unsure, apologetic.
Parisa nods to Elira.
They circle Dominic, hands roaming his quickly sweating body.
Fingers tracing muscle. Testing him.
He thrusts faster. Then stiffens.
A deep, involuntary moan rips through him.
Pleasure tightens, then collapses.
He pants like a dog.
Then — shame.
Dominic Gordon, power broker…
had an unscheduled liquidity event.
Destiny sits upright. Tears on her cheeks.
Dominic sees the look — misreads it as disappointment.
Anger smolders.
Parisa gently turns his head. Kisses him.
Electricity detonates in his nerves.
Confidence ignites like a flare.
He’s hard again, but he shouldn’t be.
Elira eases him onto the bed.
She slides onto him with slow, hypnotic grace.
And then—
The black pool.
Psychological drowning.
A silent, sucking descent.
No pain. Just the horrifying softness of losing control.
Dominic gasps for air.
Fear holds his throat.
He surfaces.
Barely.
Parisa kisses him again.
Fireworks of vitality.
Another spike of supernatural ego.
Elira rides him harder now.
Her movements sharpen.
Her thighs clamp like she’s anchoring him to reality.
Then — the abyss.
Not water.
Not dark.
Something deeper.
A place below consciousness.
He chokes. Claws at the bed.
Tries to breathe.
Panic.
“Pace yourself until it’s ready,” Parisa whispers to Elira.
“Can I… have another taste?” Destiny asks, almost shy.
Parisa strokes her face lovingly.
Like a mother soothing a child.
Elira arches.
Her entire body tightens.
Dominic feels himself dropping.
He falls into a cavernous blackness —
Elira still latched to him —
Parisa and Destiny watching from the edges.
Then it happens.
The women unfold into frightening shapes:
Two long, curved horns rise from their foreheads.
Eyes blacken like fresh oil.
Wings burst from their backs — stretching, cracking, retracting.
Nails lengthen into obsidian blades.
Teeth sharpen to razors.
And—
The hum.
It fills the room.
Fills the void.
Fills him.
A sound and a presence.
A vibration that calls.
He tries to escape — but struggles like fighting against stone.
Everything slows.
A scream builds in his chest.
Parisa feels it.
Whispers:
“Now.”
White light floods him.
Warm. Loving. Peaceful.
A lie wearing heaven’s face.
His mind rewrites the monsters into angels.
Fear melts.
Pleasure expands into unbearable serenity.
He remembers:
The first time he loved his wife.
The first time he became a father.
The first merger he closed.
The first time sex felt like devotion.
The first time he cried honestly.
The last time he will ever feel anything at all.
The women devour him.
A frenzy without flesh.
The exquisite annihilation of being wanted.
Dominic’s physical body — whole.
Destiny laughs — starved no more.
Elira convulses from the overdose of exotic joy.
Parisa lifts her arms, welcoming the magnitude.
A blinding flash.
A roar.
Before anyone can react —
the impossible.
An SUV crashes through the bedroom window.
22 stories up.
Glass explodes.
Wind screams.
Steel shrieks.
The vehicle plows over Dominic’s body, slams Elira against the wall.
She hits with a blood spattered crack.
Slides down.
Dead.
The car horn blares endlessly.
The driver’s door opens.
A man stumbles out.
Overweight. Sunglasses. Jet-black pompadour. Japanese.
White rhinestone Elvis jumpsuit.
Samurai sword in a sheath.
He’s been called Japelvis
He elbows the hood.
“Hyah!” — perfect Elvis twang.
The car horn dies.
Destiny tries crawling away.
Legs crushed.
Trail of blood.
She whimpers for Parisa.
Japelvis unsheathes the sword.
Walks to Destiny.
Before she turns her head, the blade passes through it.
Silence.
Except—
The hum.
Parisa lunges at him.
They fall into the abyss.
Weightless darkness.
A void that remembers every soul it’s tasted.
Parisa, her ravenous form fully revealed, claws at him.
Wings flaring.
Jaw unhinged.
Teeth snapping.
“They chose! It was fair!” she snarls.
Japelvis grabs a microphone from his belt — cord attached.
Wraps it around her throat.
Tightens.
She chokes.
He kicks her off.
They fall out of the void —
back into the ruined bedroom, Parisa looking as human and horribly beautiful as before.
Japelvis flicks his wrist.
The microphone retracts to his belt.
Parisa rises, dazed.
Japelvis moves faster than her fear can form.
A split-second hum.
Recognition.
Her eyes go wide.
“No! Wait! I’m with Sera…” Parisa screams when the blade takes her head.
“Only fools rush in,” he says.
Perfect Elvis timbre.
Perfect menace.
As if summoned, the remaining guests and women rush in.
Screams. Gasps. Chaos.
The remaining women see Japelvis —
and flee like prey.
The men freeze, stunned.
Japelvis walks up to one of them.
Hands over a business card.
Then strolls through the crowd, out of the apartment.
The card reads:
Elvis Impersonator
Singer For Hire
Competitive Rates
Bar Mitzvahs Double