Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
My Succubus costume was cheap red vinyl and was slutty enough that I felt the wind lift the hem with every step. I’d spent an hour applying black as night liquid eyeliner and slicking on the perfect shade of red lip gloss that tasted like artificial cherry and bad decisions. I wanted every eye on me. The kind of attention that made lesser girls blush, the kind that promised chaos.
I moved through the crush of masked students like I owned the ground, thriving on the whistles and the lingering stares. Every glance felt like a currency, and I was rolling in it. That’s when I saw him. He was standing alone, leaning against the wrought-iron fence of an old, unused cemetery that bordered the sidewalk—a classic mistake, I realized later.
The Succubus
He wasn’t in costume, unless you counted perfectly tailored black trousers and a coat that looked like it was spun from shadow. He was too still, too composed, his face obscured slightly by the weak, flickering gaslight above. When our eyes met, the noise of the street—the laughter, the cheap bass thump of the party—seemed to mute. His gaze wasn’t hungry like the frat boys I was used to; it was possessive. It didn’t feel like a compliment; it felt like he was claiming his territory.
I stopped right in front of him, letting the cold air raise goosebumps on the skin above my thigh-high boots. “Lost, handsome?” I purred, leaning close enough that he could smell the cheap perfume and cherry lip gloss. He didn’t smile. His eyes were the color of iced honey, dark and unsettlingly deep. “Not lost. Waiting.” His voice was low, rough, like worn velvet. “Waiting for something beautiful and foolish enough to stop.”
A shiver ran down my spine. This was exactly what I wanted. I craved the edge. “Foolish, huh? Try brave,” I countered, hooking my finger around the lapel of his perfect black coat. “Take me somewhere better than a frat basement.” He straightened, a movement so fluid it felt predatious in nature. “With pleasure.”
He didn’t take me to a quieter bar or an after-party. He led me away from the crowd, down a narrow, foggy alley wedged between two abandoned brownstones. The air here was damp and smelled of neglected stone and decaying leaves. The sudden isolation didn’t scare me; it excited me. This was the dark fantasy I’d dressed for.
He stopped me against the cold brick wall. The shadows here were absolute, swallowing the red of my costume until I felt naked and exposed. “You came dressed for a confession, darling,” he murmured, his hands resting lightly on my hips. His touch wasn’t warm; it was eerily cold, soaking through the thin vinyl.
I tilted my head back, offering him my neck. “Only if you know how to hear it right.” He leaned in. I expected a kiss, something that erred on the side of aggressive and possibly even demanding. Instead, he simply inhaled as his breath chilled my skin.
“You crave attention and you call it power, but it’s a beacon to things that hunger for exactly that type of vulnerability,” he whispered, his voice dangerously close to my ear. The thrill vanished, replaced by a sudden, sickening drop in my stomach. His hands tightened, not in a romantic hold, but in an impossible grip that felt like steel clamps.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled, trying to pull away. He laughed—a sound that held no humor, just ancient, dark amusement. “I am claiming what you freely offered to the night, little succubus. You wanted to be looked at…you wanted to be consumed!”
I felt an immediate, paralyzing dread. This wasn’t a man; he was something else. He bent down, and his lips brushed the skin beneath my ear, but what followed wasn’t a kiss. It was the feeling of something excruciating pressing against my jugular.
I tried to scream, but the sound caught in my throat. My knees buckled as the alley dissolved into icy blackness. The last thing I registered was the absolute, overwhelming darkness of his embrace, and the terrifying knowledge that the costume I wore wasn’t defining my role for the night; it was sealing my fate.
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