Chapter 10: Chapter Nine: Spring Rain Cadence

(Kairliina)

The esteemed listener is reminded that the Analogue Ruins podcast does not contain content warnings. Please stop listening immediately, and look to your own mental health if at any point you feel discomforted. No story is worth sacrificing your well-being.

Brace yourselves for the turn of the tide, dear ones. Chaos, too, can be a creature of habit. Better to change course when we see the need, yes, than stay locked in miserable ways to avoid admitting we’ve made a mistake?

Episode Nine: Spring Rain Cadence

(Moonsilver)

Right. Exploring. Just take a little walk around my home—is it? Is Metronome House my home?

I have a home. I belong somewhere. Tension leaves me as a blaze of sickly jade and red flames, pouring out on my breath and off my horns along my shoulders, dissipating to the soft air. My colors grow more vivid. My heart and mind unite in a swell of joy so profound that silver streams pour from my eyes. So many cleansing tears today. With slow steps and turns, with clawed feet thumping gently on the carpet, I gaze at the kind halls lit by evening light from cobwebbed lamps.

Mirror-sheens from a steel pitcher on an unattended cart. I step closer, chasing the reflection I know I’ll find. I can feel what I’ll see. I know in my heart that it’s true. Still, I want to see it outside myself. I want to see the world looking back in my image, to know existence sees me in its sightless way.

Skin the same blue as the threshold where the sky meets space. Six scythe-like horns, two pairs aimed back, one pair aimed forward. Her gown roils, white clouds of streaming smoke and ash-flakes, and bubblegum pink fire wreathes her head in a writhing mane of flame-hair. Her wings are great and broad, with the shapes of bat-wings and the iridescence of a beetle, her tail is long and powerful and studded with spines at its tip. The longer she stares at her reflection, the more her wariness breaks.

Moment by moment, she dares to make, then widen, a frail and wondrous smile.

Hey.

Hey, what the fuck.

Look at this trembling demon-creature. Look at the glow in her eyes as she touches her horns, and flaps her wings, and hugs her tail. She’s happy.

Moonsilver can be happy.

I can be happy.

I planned to go into politics. I planned to spend my whole life posturing, angry, hating myself for the compromises I made to get ahead, hating everyone around me for holding on to the individuality I sacrificed for… power? What, is that what power means to me? Fake support from a bunch of scrabbling, frothing idiots who constantly shriek that politicians lie, cheat, and manipulate, and inexplicably believe I’m the one puppeteer who will actually reward them?

Aekarii was right. This long-forgotten joy—this is my power! I feel like I could lift a whole building, like I could burn stone and steel to cinders, like I could wrestle a dragon and maybe even win! I can be happy, and kiss girls, and kiss boys, kiss anyone who’s kind and warm and lets me love them. Is this me, this heat and comfort, full of dreams?

Fates save me, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. The stories of my childhood only told me how to look brave and productive so others would take blows for me. An inspiring feminist icon. And a human, for that matter. No wonder I could only understand womanhood through causes and ideals. A woman is a female human. I’m no woman at all. I never was.

A female demon. What am I supposed to do… wait…

Why am I thinking about what I’m supposed to do? When did I forget how to just wander, and feel, and be?

Conscious thought falls away. My fingers trail over the walls, claws splayed out to keep them from cutting into the floral-print paper and the fine wood paneling. I’ve always loved hotels. When I was a little girl, I thought how wonderful it would be to live in one—a space I didn’t own, yet where I could stay. Somewhere I belonged even though it didn’t belong to me.

Metronome House feels like the soul of a hotel I stayed in, once, when my mother took the family traveling. I was nine. I only know because that’s the year she cut ties with my best friend Suzie’s mom. A week before my birthday. I spent the whole day crying into my cake, because I was nine, and I missed my best friend, and my mother stared at nothing like an iron effigy of some forgotten goddess of disdain.

But a month before that, we spent such a wonderful week at an old hotel on a lake. I thought how magical it was to feel our lives overlapping with so many others: just like wading in the lake together, where the ripples I sent out would bounce off someone else and come back to me. I liked to imagine that when the ripples returned, I was feeling some of the touch they felt when my ripples touched them.

I mentioned this idea to my mother and she went on a cold, endless diatribe about energy manipulation, about the pitfalls of touching the essence of others without their consent. I was nine, and I stopped myself from crying because I knew if I cried, she would only sharpen her tone and tell me she knew I was stronger than this, that she wouldn’t reinforce my negative emotions by recognizing them. The Millennium Child had to be a heroine, right? Now that I think back on it, I was the one who made that week wonderful for myself. I’m beginning to remember how I did that.

A font of magic, deep in my heart, transmuting misery into wonders. What a queer kind of alchemy.

I like the soundproofed suite I have to myself and my dolls, of course, but wandering these halls, seeing dolls and witches and other beings going about their own lives… this feels so much better than an empty sidewalk outside an aloof three-bedroom thing of rough bricks and uneasy shingles.

Love. That’s what I feel for Metronome House. Love.

So I wander, listening to the distant echoes of conversations down hallways I’ll travel on some other day. Subtle shifts in the endless murmur of the enclosed spaces, changes in the undertones to the faint rush of ventilation that I begin to realize has a slow rhythm. My senses are keener, and I’m more aware of what they tell me. I keep noticing it—this simple, profound clarity.

In becoming lucid, I realize that I’ve lived all my life numb.

The stillness beside me is so loud. The emptiness calls to mind the other girls who should be here, and my joy ebbs.

I did this to us. I fucked everything up. Carrie and Hannah ought to be right here beside me, sharing in this. We should be laughing, bantering, comparing notes.

And the girls of my coven…

Jenna’s another mortal-born sister, like Hannah. I know she is. She stirred the abyssal knowing in my heart that I felt when I met Hannah at her clinic, when I met Aekarii as Arisa. But that was before I knew what that feeling meant, and if I’d know, I fear I’d just have hurt her worse than I already did. I never shut Jen down face-to-face, but my eyes are open as I look at the past, and I remember how often I went on a self-harming monologue about the evil, patriarchal propaganda of the succubus.

Spite and blood. I might as well have said, “Hello, fellow humans!”

I know how Jenna must’ve felt. Witch-name Jenuthra. I forget the name of the major, but she was studying to become a librarian until I nagged her into switching to Political Science, just like me. She must’ve jumped through so many mental hoops when she told me, and I didn’t even smile. The fucked-up truth of it is, part of me hoped she’d tell me to fuck off and save us both from my misery.

What a gutless, bullshit expectation to put on another girl.

Pale, fiery red hair. I was insecure around her because, of all the girls in the coven, she was the only one with skin as good as mine.

Of course, I was a good liberal, so it couldn’t be anything that petty. I started with some galaxy-brain cognitive dissonance about how, to have skin that soft, she must use lots of expensive products from morally-dubious manufacturers. After that I just kept inventing reasons to dislike her with a smile.

She entered my coven hoping for that miracle spark of sisterhood, carrying within her so many vaulted dreams of a succubus still asleep to herself. She sensed our connection too. Made herself open to my words. And through that hole in her armor, through a weakness she’d never have opened for a human, I poisoned my poor sister.

Marta, witch-name Morticia, was human, I think. If not, she was something other than a succubus. But she looked up to me, and she trusted me, and I took this bright-eyed brunette girl, full of passion and quiet style, and I rubbed her face in trauma, in self-hate and hopeless rage and my stupid obsession with performing the just cause, until she lost her smile and all the light went out of her eyes. She kept studying Drama, but by the time I was done with her, she only saw it as a source of novel inspiration for campaign ads and fundraising materials.

Megan, who liked to call herself Morrigu even though she never cast any spells, was the girlfriend I deserved. I used her, she used me. That’s fair. Last I heard, she and my mother are getting along famously. Meg’s a slim girl, same as me, but she’s athletic, less conventionally feminine, so in my mother’s eyes I guess that makes her less of a walking monument to the male gaze. I wonder how they’re doing, those faces I used to love. How’s the apocalypse treating them?

Enough about the women who hurt me. If I focus on cruelty, cruelty is what I’ll find. I’ve learned that lesson all too well. I need to understand compassion.

Emilia, witch-name Titania, was tan, red-headed, and full of memes. Majoring in Art when she joined us. I convinced her to change to Marketing, high on visions of a future where she praised me as the woman who got her into a stable career. Every day after that, her jokes came faster and more manic, even while her smiles grew brief, and dull, and painfully sharp.

Becka, witch-name Elspeth, liked to dye her hair green, until I wore her down with offhanded remarks about split ends and “that dry grass look.” She wanted to switch from Business to Music. I told her to follow the money. When she came out as pansexual, I gave her such a flat look she never mentioned it again.

Ada, witch-name Caprice, was white-haired due to some rare mutation. She had a writer’s stubbornness. She stuck to her stories despite my manipulation, and looked so pale from all her time inside that I took to calling her ‘cave fish’. Just a friendly joke, right? Same with calling her ‘dork,’ and ‘nerd,’ and constantly hinting that long-form prose was a dying medium, and that modern audiences needed the fast pace and style of movies and video games.

It couldn’t be abuse if I didn’t intend to hurt her, right?

Ada kept writing, but she stopped sharing her work with the coven. She wrote such weird, surreal, genre-bending SciFi. I used to read her blog on the sly, a guilty pleasure, watching as her pieces grew more and more bitter. I told myself it was just part of the process, that soon she’d realize she needed to get with the times and pick a practical major.

Luna, witch-name Anagreth, had hair as black as mine, but she was gaunt and always looked sickly compared to me. A nursing student. I kept asking about med school, heavily implying that nursing was what the patriarchy expected us to do, and she should try to become a “proper” doctor. She kept saying she might want to switch to engineering. I couldn’t see how that would fit into my plans, so I said nothing, and nothing was what came of her desires.

Liss, witch-name Spectra, was another brunette, the quiet mousy one to Marta’s elegance. A Music major. She never told us much about what she wanted from life, about what made her happy, and I never asked. After she froze up at one too many meetings, I got in the habit of passing right over her. I figured she could find her own way out of her shell. God… I don’t even know what instruments she played, or whether she leaned more towards singing.

It’s easy to say I thought it was okay to treat them that way because that’s how my mother, and her friends, treated me. But I still saw the damage my treatment caused them, and I chose to keep inflicting it. I repeated the motions of my abuse on the girls who trusted me. I… I abused them. They wanted to believe in magic. I taught them to believe in pain.

The pedestal under my hand is cool and solid, sculpted from many glass shards sealed in amber oozing between the tree-roots cut off and sanded down to make a flat circle.

Okay. Yeah. I fucked everything up. I ruined multiple lives. Especially Carrie. I made her desperate and lonely enough to fall into Merovingia’s clutches. I tried to destroy Hannah to keep my own facade up. Now they’re both back in my life, and that’s two more chances than I had any right to hope for. I’m awake to myself. I know what I want, I know why I feel the things I feel.

So am I just going to stagger around for the rest of eternity, weeping to myself about how it’s all ashes from here? Asking that question is answer enough.

I know now why I was so desperate to keep skittering around. Confronting the harm I’ve done takes it out of me: my reflection’s faded when I look upon myself through the amber lens. My flames burn low, and my wings crackle and flake, iridescence lost. It’s okay. Just give myself room to accept how far I’ve fallen, and I’ll find a way to get that color back. For today, I’ll follow Aekarii’s advice. All the pain I caused in the past happened because of the pain I justified against myself. If I’m better to myself, I will be better to the beings around me.

It’s worked with Haz and Showpiece. It’s worked with Jamie and Aekarii. It’ll work for the sisters I’ve hurt, too. Self-love is not running away. Self-love is not selfish. It’s self-love that’ll help me get strong, so I can make this right.

My steps grow firmer, and my thoughts ebb enough to let my senses touch Metronome House again. I pass from carpeting to tiles, and before I’ve rounded the corner, the burbling of water announces that I’ve been granted my wish: a whole enclosed courtyard full of fountains and elaborate watercourses too. Warm mood lighting within, and above, a sunroof opening on a vista of slowly-tumbling asteroids. On balconies, on staircases, in terraced bowls speckled by tables, a handful of other City-dwellers lounge, walk, and show each other their abilities.

It’s that easy? I hope to find something, and Metronome House helps me find it? But why? I’m me, I’m Moonsilver, I’m… scum. Like Aekarii said. Aekarii, who loves me as a sister. Who especially loves me because I’m scum.

This place… this place loves me too.

All these tears, so fast and free. Even now, there’s a spike of anxiety about seeming laughable, of crying too much and looking cartoonish. Real people never cry this much, right? But I’m not a real person. I’m a real succubus, and it feels so good to cry. For so many years I never let myself shed a tear. I never wanted anyone to see me as the weepy girl, the needy girl, the girl who pines for a kiss. Weepy girls are weak, right? We’re obviously vulnerable, so we deserve what happens to us. That’s the thesis of the modern American heroine. The only woman who gets to be happy is a fiery, self-motivated girlboss who cracks jokes while punching faces off.

But, see, I’m scum. So I can just take what I want from life, even if I don’t deserve it.

Yeah… yeah! I’m scum, and I love myself because I’m scum! Next time I see Aekarii, I think I do want that hug.

I’m not alone. I have a home that loves me in its quiet away, a home that protects me and nurtures me and gives me moments of joy like this. I have two sister succubi who love me, despite everything I’ve done. I have two dolls that would do anything for me, two dolls I would do anything for.

My name is Moonsilver. I’m a succubus of the abyssal sisters. I’ve soaked my breast in silver tears, and I am still here. There will be a tomorrow. I’m going to make things up to the girls I’ve hurt.

So today? Today is for me.

See how the lights glitter in every ripple, and chase the divots and swells of the little waves running along the water-courses connecting each tiered fountain. Feel the soothing mist prickle on my skin.

Silly little succubus. Where do I go to explore my powers without facing threats I can’t match? Right here, in the labyrinthine dimensions of Metronome House. I wonder—is this sanctuary truly limited to witches and dolls, or are we just the sorts of beings that can most easily imagine living here? A case of eldritch confirmation bias?

There’s that question again: am I still a witch now that I’m awake to my nature, now that I’m a lucid succubus? Yeah. The word “witch” still resonates. What does a succubus witch do? Let’s find out. Take a step, Moonsilver. Act on instinct.

Babbling, blurs of green, shrieks and splashes in the water. Tumultuous visions resolve to a pair of short, curvy, pointy-eared gremlin creatures with faintly-glowing eyes. Their belly-length shirts are soaked through, hanging heavy on two fantastic busts, and the fact that they’re actively trying to strangle each other tickles me in strange new ways.

My tongue sweeps across my fangs, as sudden and natural as breathing used to be.

By the time it occurs to me that I’m planning on talking to unfamiliar beings, and to solicit sex for pleasure, no less, my momentum’s up and I’m just horny enough to shut down self-reflection. Besides, I’m the supernatural personification of lust! I should be a little full of myself.

Approach options flicker, cascades of salacious pondering. Hear that? The timbre of my thoughts changes. What words could translate the lust of succubus? How do I say “fuck” and “make love” at the same time, how do I cum a sheen of velvet shearing glass? Such an infinity of pleasures to explore! Right, here’s the brim of the fountain. I could put a foot up on it, leaning on my knee, come across a little domineering, but I’m feeling more… coquettish? Yeah. That feels right.

So I slide down and drape myself along the cool outer face of the fountain-stone, as much lying sideways as sitting, and wrap my folded arms upon the rim, there to rest my head with my wing-tips framing me. An amused smile, faintly hungry, melts over my lips and pools in my eyes.

Now, I just need to figure out how to get their attention--

(Maybe-Girl-thing for devour-fucking)

“Whoa, holy shit! Are you, like, a sex demon?!”

(Moonsilver)

Whoops! I spent so long being playful that I’ve been preempted. One pair of big shiny eyes, golden to the other’s purple, has fixed on my face. Roll with it! I know I can seem aloof or imposing, so I’ll let this ice break itself. Be surprised, charming, disarming—oh, god, I know this is manipulative, but it feels too good to stop—lure them with a ditzy veneer. Let those eyes pop wide, let those lip make a soft “oh” shape and hang open, like I just woke up from a lovely dream.

“As a matter of fact, I--”

--am interrupted, as the purple-eyed meal—I mean being!--immediately pipes up.

(Maybe-Girl-thing for annoyed-fucking)

“Nixie, the other demon-lady went over this! Just ‘cuz she has horns and tiddies out doesn’t mean she’s a sex demon! You know what she said about succubi--”

(Moonsilver)

This is heading in a decidedly celibate direction. Time to step in before my fun’s ruined.

“How about you let me tell you how I feel about being a succubus, hm, and leave this other demon’s opinion with her?”

My tail curves up, spines bending to the shapes of my face, reflecting faintly in the pink scales framing my cheeks. A strange sensation—to feel the sight of myself, to touch the way I look. Dig into that later. For now, make that voice silky. The old way. The way you stopped doing after Westhavelland.

You are reading story Analogue Ruins of a Girl I Once Gutted at novel35.com

Maybe there are some parts of my past self I should keep, after all.

(Moonsilver, Charnel Harlot of the Gutted Moon)

“Though, I am curious… what did she tell you, this other succubus?”

(Maybe-Girl-thing that better not ruin this for me)

“Uh… like… that succubi are about magic and rituals with witches, and the predatory sex thing is just something that these humans called ‘Christians’ made up to slander them?”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“That’s a lot for me to digest. I’ll tell you what: I’ll do that on my own time, and should we meet again, if I’ve come up with an answer, I’ll tell it to you then. Meanwhile…”

That’s right, slut. Gather all that hot, soft, plush tit-flesh into your claws. Lift it, knead it, invite their eyes to linger. Yes, this is generic. Generic is good. Generic is a shared starting point. Lure them with simplicity, surprise them with your own special twist. See? You can become what you already are—succubus. So let your lids droop, flash those slitted do-me eyes, advertise what’s on offer.

“I am a very sexual succubus. Now, before I get ahead of myself, my name is Moonsilver. I’m a she/her girl. How should I know the two of you? Cards on the table, I’m tempted to think ‘goblin,’ but as we’ve just discussed, assumptions are a very dangerous game.”

(Maybe-Girl-thing that is, regrettably, about to become personified)

“Oh, yeah, I don’t vibe with the word ‘goblin’ at all. My name’s Ax. I’m me. I mean, ‘girl’ feels good, although I’m more of an it than a she. I’m just kind of a creature. Like, from what Nixie’s told me, I totally like acting the way that goblins are supposed to act, but I’m not a goblin. I’m Ax.”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“Ax, who is itself, and happy in it. I will remember this.”

My blue eyes shift, once reflected in violet, now in gold.

(Nixie)

“I’m Nixie! I’m also girls, and I am a goblin. She/her brand, like you. From Earth. I dunno if you’ve heard of it. It’s, uh… I’d rather not talk about it.”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“Ex-Earther solidarity. Fuck that planet.”

(Nixie)

“Fuck that shitty planet with a giant poop asteroid, am I right?!”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“… well. I was going to flirt with you, but I admit, I have no idea how to bring us back to sex now that you’ve put that image in my head.”

(Nixie)

“I mean… I’m sure somebody’s into that.”

(Ax)

“Yeah, but are any of us into that?”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

Silence descends. The fountains burble. As it draws out, my ears open to the slow sounds of the other girls’ breathing, the rise and fall of their breasts. Their scent carries estrogen and other notes, musky and raw like a deep forest. Is the key to lust really that simple? Just shut up for a second, and let it bloom? From the need squirming in my belly… yes. Sometimes, at least, it’s as easy as being what you are, the curves and colors and scents of you, and sharing in the being of others.

I want to make these wet little whores cum so hard they fill a whole new fountain.

(Ax)

‘S-so… oh, wow, your eyes get real wide when you’re excited, ma’am—I mean, Moonsilver!--uh… so we’re all girls. T-that’s pretty cool!”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“It is pretty cool, isn’t it, Ax? Just some girls in a public fountain together. What will they do? I’m starting to feel awfully awkward, though, perched on the rim like this…”

I’m sure, somewhere, a lifelong gymnast is screaming at the ease of my movement: lifting myself by a single clawed finger, pushing up and over the rim, and then dropping myself into the fountain. A fresh splash of cool water drenches the creature and the goblin all over again.

“Oops! How clumsy of me! Oh, my, and it looks like my gown washes right off. I guess that’s the trouble with trying to wear smoke—it needs at least a little fire.”

They’re courteous, annoyed, and horny enough that they refrain from pointing out that my hair hasn’t extinguished. There’s a question to explore some other time: when would it turn me on to have my hair put out? How? File it away, succubus. Is your second sexual awakening really something to rush?

On the contrary, I want to take my time teasing out every little mystery of lust. I want to make every new fetish a moment to remember. Conceptual edging. Oh! Now, there’s another fun trick to try sometime. Skirting around the idea of sex, passing closer and closer, an orbit tightening oh-so-slowly—only to widen again before it can surrender to the final plunge! I wonder how I would handle that…

I push myself out of the water. I take my time to avoid splashing, to be sure the only sounds are the trickles streaming off my tits. It’s the first time I’ve really thought about how big they are in my true form: they look swollen, almost bloated, and they’re so full of sensitive soul-energy that the more I think about them, the more it feels like my brain’s being sucked into their mass! So shamefully, simplistically sexual, such brute-force horny. They look all the larger for the way the fountain-fluids accentuate them, little rivulets shining amber on blue skin and the near-black of my nipples.

Nixie’s eyes light up. She lunges, and I brace my arms against the fountain-rim behind me. Lust overtakes all, telling me how good it is to be fondled, desired, tasted, used. And oh, it is! Her hot little hands press, pull, lift the heaviness of me to her mouth, plumping manifested fat and mammary glands for the quick pink tongue sneaking out of her big green lips.

Lips that smack, a tongue that circles, tracing each areola with slutty little moans while she lifts her eyes to meet mine. I moan right back, tilting my head up to beam my delight down on her.

(Ax)

“N-n-nix!!! We’re in public!…”

(Nixie)

(Sounds of succ-nipple leaving lips) “If the tits are in public, that’s where I’m suckin’ em!”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“Would you like us to wait until you’re elsewhere, Ax?”

(Ax)

“N-no, I wanna join, just… f-fuck, you two…”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“Take your time and join in if, and, when you’re ready, okay, dear? I promise you, there’s plenty of me to go around.”

(Nixie)

Hey, Moon, since my mouth’s free for a sec, I gotta ask: can I get some milkies?”

(Moonsilver)

“Oh!… um… I’m afraid I haven’t figured out how to do that sort of thing on demand yet, sorry.”

(Nixie)

“Hey, nothing you’ve gotta say sorry for! Like… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your tits are fucking fantastic. I’m not gonna be a little asshole and throw a fit just because you can’t lactate on request. You okay to keep going?”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“Oh, I’ll be very angry if you stop after all this build-up. I’m horny, little goblin. You’re going to help me get off.”

(Nixie)

“Oh, fuck…”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

She plays out the surge of her need with long, panting licks: up and down, her eyes pleading and staring at my bosom while she coats me with strings of saliva. She’s so needy that my nipples lift up on her tongue and fall down, brushing her chin as her mouth passes them by. Such sweet stimulation…!

(Nixie)

“Okay, like, fuck… to be clear… the predatory succubus thing, where you’re basically threatening to make me like it? Turns me on so fucking fast!!! Sorry, I, uh, hope that’s alright to say. Being a succubus always seemed like a lot of pressure.”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

She tries to wait for my answer, to wait for consent. But poor Nixie’s only mortal, and the more aroused I grow, the more I radiate a bonfire of bliss. Stoking, steaming, making the waters boil! I feel myself in that heat. I am inferno transmuting to ecstasy the moment it touches my new toys’ nerves.

So the dear hopeless goblin drools, and gasps, and gives in to mindless animal need. Groping, squirming to get more of my sweet, silken-skinned body against her lips, into her mouth, under her tongue. That’s right, sweetheart. Eat me up and swallow me down—I’ll be your reagent, I’m the only pill you need, I’m the catalyst of transformation!

(Harlot Moonsilver)

“It can be… mmmm… a lot of pressure, yes… but it’s worth it, y’know? Aaahn!~… worth it, to stay true to myself, oh, yes!”

(Ax)

“D-do you want to… uh… talk about it…?”

(Harlot Moonsilver)

(Moaning) “Some other time, pet. Right now, the only thing I want to use my mouth for is moaning. Help me moan louder, would you?”

And she does. She kisses, plucks with her lips, delivers sudden pinching nips with her sharp little teeth so I squeal and squirm. Malleable to me, malleable to these faint parasite streamers of rose-pink squirming out of my aura and burrowing into her sweat-kissed skin through the open gateways of many shivering nerve-endings. So many little portals opening for me! I try to cling to that thought. I can sense I’ll want it later, but it slips away and smashes into jumbles. The growing swells of ardor carry me onward.

Ax finally breaks, scrambling to me in a mad rush and hurling itself at the warm valley between my legs. I spread them with a purring laugh from the back of my throat. I praise Ax with a smoldering smile. My tail coils, tickled by the mop of its shaggy black hair, to cup the back of its head and guide its mouth to my pussy. My every ecstatic quiver raises tendrils from the fountain-waters. Before I think to question whether I can, I am pointillist hardlight, a miniature starfield of pinks under the surface of the steaming depths, conforming the currents to my need.

Rising streamers break from the fountain’s surface to seek and stroke the shortstack curves of my paramours, those heavy busts and big round asses, coaxing wriggles and cries of desire. Such sweet music girls can make! My heart thrills to hear their voices pitching up with pleasure, and Ax’s moans add mind-melting vibration to its insistent, hungry licks. We’re such a spectacle, a gaggle of wonderful lust-drunk whores, drawing gazes of shock, of scandal, of smug appreciation from the passers by. Several pick seats with a good view while they masturbate to the sight of our sex. I blow kisses to our audience, then turn all my heart and soul to my own notes in the eternal song of desire.

We fuck beneath that spatial sprawl of tumbling asteroids, and in the middle of an eye-widening moan, I watch a comet trailing past to meet a distant star. My pleasure-center chimes to the sounds of babbling water, babbling sex, Ax’s tongue on my clit answered by my tail’s tip on its own throbbing bud, my fingers wreathed in steam and water plunging between Nixie’s legs. Her G-spot’s a blaze of sensation where our auras overlap: mine pushing in, hers retreating and morphing to offer me entry. Energies entwine like kisses beyond counting. Nerves firing in sync. The more I stroke her insides, the more she pushes against me, the more desperately I finger her on the next plunge.

Bouncing from my lust to theirs and back. I’m snared by bliss, trapped in ecstasy, caught and caged and rising higher, higher, higher to meet release that keeps pulling away at the last second. More, faster, more, faster, my eyes widening, my wings flexing and enveloping our triad--!

I crest first, and pull the girls across with me. At the instant of ecstasy, as my final cry peaks in pitch and urgent, straining instinct, the fountain-waters surge so high they spray against the sunroof. We whimper, clinging to each other, pussies clutching tongues and fingers and tail in tandem, grinding out our orgasms in a melting pot of sweet oblivion. These dear, bright-eyed faces, flushed, moaning, drooling on my nurturing curves… this is where I belong. This is everything a succubus should be.

I cradle them against me as we come down one gasp at a time, still sometimes giving up shining squirts of girlcum to the fountain. Stroking their damp hair. Playing with their long, tapering ears as they twitch against me. All is muzzy affection and simple, empty-headed joy.

I weave still-steaming water around my hands while I drink the scents of our sex. Odd. But then, I suppose my Unraveling is a part of me, so in a way, whatever I unravel becomes part of me, too. It seems that concept is all the bridge I needed to learn kinesis.

“How do you like that, girls? Sex is my magic.”

They’re too drowsy to answer. I meant to continue on my way, but what’s the rush? The day’s long. I feel a fleeting yet unmistakable form of love for these sweethearts. There’s a kind of lust, too, in cuddling with the ones that gave me pleasure. It feels like its own form of sex. So I hold them close, wrap my tail and wings around their limp and dreaming bodies, and join them in slumber.

(end)

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