Hi everyone!
Brand new series for you today. This one features a succubus bound to a contract under the custody of a lawyer who has been through life’s wringer and come out wrinkled, crumpled, and ready for some good luck. It was a commission from a super awesome fan; you can pick up the story here!
Blurb:
She’s bound to the contract, and he’s bound to give in to what she wants.
Michael Keegan’s life is falling apart. Demoted from hotshot trial lawyer to office clerk, he watches his career crumble while his marriage withers into exhausted silence. His wife barely looks at him anymore. The beautiful women in his office don’t see him at all.
But when he picks up the Whitmore contract…everything changes.
A succubus, Isabel, is bound to the contract. She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. Blonde, busty, supernatural, an actual demon—she’s the definition of bad news, and Michael is head over heels anyway, desperate to make her smile. She insists that she’s devoted to his pleasure and happiness and would never, ever betray him (even if she’s a bad, bad soul-eating girl). All she wants him to do is set her free from the terms of the contract. Would that be so very bad?
To prove her good faith, she transforms the women in his office—and his wife—from a group of apathetic beauties into a harem of devoted, obsessed hotties who would do anything to prove how much they “respect” their Man. And of course, the number one way to respect him is to get on their knees…or to spread their legs, and to beg for it as much as possible.
Succubus Office – Looping Her In is the first installment in a trilogy featuring mind-blowing sex scenes, a harem of increasingly devoted professional babes, and the corruption of absolute control.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of INTENSE kink and bimbofication, mind control, breeding, lactation erotica, and the delicious submission of self-righteous feminist women who thought they were too good for one lucky guy.
The First 1000-ish Words:
“This is perfectly in line with your outlined work responsibilities,” said Michael. “Look, all you have to do—”
“I said, no.”
It was something special when a woman like Sandra looked at you. The first time he had met her at a company breakfast—back when she thought Michael still might be able to help her climb the corporate ladder, she had smiled.
God, that smile. He still stroked himself to it sometimes, more even than the thought of any pornography or revealing celebrity photos. She had the kind of smile that made men forget their mortgages, their wives, their dignity. Full lips over perfect teeth. A light in her green eyes that said she saw something worth her time.
That smile was gone now, replaced with open contempt.
The contempt was special too, though. Contempt on a woman this good-looking burned straight through to the soul. Like it or not, beauty carried authority. It stuck in the brain, sat in the crevices between every thought. And Sandra was gorgeous. Unfairly so—and what was worse was that she knew it.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, one of them flickering in a way that made Michael’s left eye twitch after only about three hours of exposure. The carpet was industrial gray, worn thin in pathways between desks. Water stains bloomed across ceiling tiles in abstract patterns that Michael had spent too many idle hours interpreting.
Lucia did her best. The office manager kept fresh flowers on the reception desk—her own money, Michael knew, not that she had any to spare—and she’d hung motivational posters that might have looked inspiring in a different building. Here, surrounded by peeling paint and the persistent smell of mildew from somewhere in the walls, they just looked sad. The whole place looked sad. Corporate had shoved them into this industrial sector office building between a defunct textile warehouse and a check-cashing joint with bars on the windows.
Sandra stood near the single grimy window, backlit by weak afternoon light filtering through glass that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Clinton administration. Her outfit—some kind of designer dress that Michael couldn’t name but knew cost more than his car payment—looked absurd in this context. She belonged in Manhattan, in glass towers with views of Central Park. Not here.
Sandra stood in front of his desk, hip cocked, one hand on her waist. The other held her phone. She wore a cream Chanel blazer over a black silk top that she’d left unbuttoned enough to show the hollow of her throat, the sharp edges of her collarbones, the beginning swell of her breasts pushed up in what had to be La Perla. A gold Cartier necklace caught the fluorescent light. Her chocolate hair fell past her shoulders in loose waves. The black pencil skirt hugged hips that barely existed, stopping mid-thigh to show off legs that went on forever, toned calves flexing in her Saint Laurent heels.
She was twenty-six. She made more than he did. He would have been lying if he said her easy, comfortable success and rise didn’t turn him on. He liked women who made something of themselves, who their worth and their beauty.
He just liked it better when they did what they were told.
“You’re not hearing me,” Sandra said. She tapped something on her phone screen without looking at it. “I’m not doing estate dissolutions. That’s not what I do.”
“It’s literally your job description as—”
“As someone who’s transferring to corporate litigation in three months?” She finally looked up from her phone. “Darlene promised.”
He wished the door wasn’t open for this. Of course, Sandra had purposefully left it open to make sure everyone knew the power dynamic between them.
Across the small office, Carmen sat at her desk, watching unabashedly with the vapid interest of someone observing a car accident. She was supposed to be organizing files. Instead, she had her phone angled up, occasionally taking selfies, her long blond hair cascading over one shoulder as she pouted at the screen. Carmen was short and so slender that he would have worried about her health if he didn’t see the feasts she ate for lunch and knew her teeth had never once been touched by purging. She was thin to the point of absurdity apparently because she had the metabolism of an exploding sun.
Another woman who looked at Michael now mostly with contempt.
She wore a white Stella McCartney dress that clung to her non-existent frame, the neckline plunging to show off her delicate clavicles and the push-up bra working overtime on her modest chest. A Bulgari bracelet caught the light every time she moved her wrist.
Another high-class dresser. Sandra paid for her threads to help herself move up the ladder. Carmen made one boyfriend after another—if interchangeable toys she never seemed to know the names of counted as boyfriends—pay for hers.
He’d been here for six weeks now, and Carmen wasn’t even pretending to work anymore. This morning, she had had come in three hours late and then left for an early lunch. She was daring him to fire her; Michael might have, except that his boss at headquarters, Darlene, had ensured he had no authority to do so.
Lucia, at the reception desk near the door, kept her head down. She was the only one who ever did any work. Her fingers moved across her keyboard, her bright caramel eyes fixed on her monitor. She wore a burgundy skirt suit, the jacket tailored maybe fifteen pounds earlier to emphasize her now not-quite-as-narrow waist, the skirt showing off her still long, toned legs. A simple Tiffany pendant—fake, he guessed, knowing what he knew about her financial situation—rested against her throat. Even hunched over, trying to be invisible, Lucia was breathtaking. More exotic features than the other two—Spanish lineage written in the structure of her face—but bustier and slightly taller than Sandra. Three women who looked like this, and Michael couldn’t get a single one of them to respect him. There was something deeply emasculating about being so turned on all the time, so hyper-aware of his own arousal…and knowing he couldn’t back up anything he said with even a suggestion of power…
Like what you see? Grab the rest here!
