Hotter than Hell
Coitus Interruptus
Anyone in my position would've thought the buzzing in my head was anticipation. Five minutes to go, then the client would be eating from my hand. Literally. I had the grapes ready and waiting in the ice bucket, chilling. She liked it when I let the cluster dangle over her lips -- she'd poke out her tongue, sinewy and slick against the ripe fruit, darting pink flesh over purple. Sweetness on sweetness, both begging to be sucked. Plucked. My blood pounded through me, boom boom, boom boom, sending happy signals to my brain and my balls, getting my body primed. T-minus five minutes, and counting. Small talk until then -- light touches here, knowing smiles there, lying about her job and mine. Thinking about sex. Killing time.
So it sort of wasn't my fault that I didn't sense the demon approaching.
The client had moved some things around in the bedroom since my last visit. Now her wedding photo was missing ("Getting it reframed") and the threadbare pink comforter had been replaced with one that was red and advertised sin. We sprawled on the bed, clothing still on, intentions thick in the air. She was decked out in a white silk sheath and pearls and lacy thigh highs. I was a study of blacks. A bit cliche, but Tall, Dark, and Handsome was all the rage. She liked it, and I aimed to please.
"I got a new perfume," my client said. "Envy Me."
"I'd prefer to ravish you."
Her smile pulled into a grin -- white teeth flashing in a lipstick sea of red. "The perfume, I mean. It's Gucci." She leaned forward, offering me her neck as she pressed her breasts against my chest, rubbed. Looking for a quick feel through the silk. My kind of woman. She purred, "Like it, baby?"
Inhaling deeply, I took in the peony and jasmine and other scents blending together with her eager sweat, her underlying smell of female in heat. "Nice," I lied. Me, I preferred the musk of her sex alone, without the cloying flowery scent over it. "You smell good enough to eat." No lie there.
"Yeah?" She was playful, almost kittenish. "You going to &hellip; eat me?"
Heh. Sex kittenish. "Oh, yeah, doll. Eat you alive." Among other things.
"My big bad wolf."
That made me chuckle. Brushing her hair away from her face, I asked, "You my Little Red Riding Hood?"
"Depends, baby. You want me to ride you?"
I smiled, wistful. "Like you would not believe."
My head buzzed, hummed as she oozed sex, her body practically begging me to climb on top of her. Soon, doll. Soon. She jiggled against me once more, reached her hand out toward my thigh -- stroked once, lushly, then pulled back. She knew the dance by now: only teasing at first, quick-fingered taunts. Nothing overt. Not yet.
Seduction, after all, had its rules. Date Number One had been all about getting her to kiss me. Number Two had been pleasing her like no other man or woman ever had before. Three had been making her want me more than anything else. (One thing about us Seducers: we always put our clients' desires ahead of our own. If not for the rules, I would've fucked her silly after I introduced myself.)
Here we were at Date Number Four: D-day, the Big One. Otherwise known as The Payoff. It set my blood to boil just thinking about it.
But first things first: I had to get her revving -- ready, steady, go -- on the first real touch. Thus a five-minute warm-up of sexual tension. Seduction 101. Child's play. And never mind how that single stroke of hers on my leg had rippled up my back, settled into my stomach. I shifted; the front of my pants was too damn tight.
Sometimes the rules really sucked.
"Don," she said, her voice a low purr that went straight to my crotch. That's all she said: my name, or her version of my name. That's all she needed to say. Her hand again, now on my stomach. I wagged a no-no-no with my finger as I grinned, thinking about how she'd taste like candy. Thinking about how she'd call my name.
Mmm. Shivers.
"I've been waiting for this all week," she whispered.
"Me too."
"I couldn't stop thinking about you." She dropped her gaze to my fly, where she saw just how much I was thinking about her. Her desire filled the air, thick and pungent, as she begged me, "Come on, baby, let's get started already."
I chuckled. "So, I'm not cut out to be a superhero, a spy, a magician &hellip; or a comedian?"
Laughing, she said, "Sorry &hellip; "
"No, that's okay. My ego can handle it."
Her smile was warm, genuine. "Glad to hear that."
As we crossed the street, I saw him: a big man, bald and bulky, looking like trouble, from his motorcycle jacket to his shit-kicking boots. An abundance of leather and spikes. Bad news waiting to happen. And directly in our path.
Of course, that was because I'd summoned him. Benefit of being a first-level demon: the ability to sense and summon evil humans, no matter what sin damned them. I'd used this particular power only a few times since I'd acquired it. It wasn't as impressive as riding a mortal body, but then again, possession was nine-tenths of the awe.
I altered my psychic message to him, transformed it from a summoning to a compulsion. Specifically, one that had to do with Virginia: You want the woman. &hellip; woman wrapped in a coat i can peel it off of her see what's inside &hellip; I pushed: First get rid of the man. &hellip; stick him till he bleeds &hellip; He'd come at me with a knife. Good to know.
All right, yes, it was cheating. Hey, I'm a demon. I'm supposed to cheat.
"So, no," I said to Virginia as we stepped onto the sidewalk, "getting stuck in a metal box didn't really put a dent into my evening. I really liked the company."
She smiled at me. "Me too."
Maybe she would have said more, perhaps even would have asked me to join her in her McFeast. But the danger sense that all prey has buried deep within their minds must have cried out a warning, because Virginia closed her mouth and glanced around. From the look on her face, she felt something was off. Wrong. Her pace didn't slow, and neither did mine, but her defenses went up, layer by layer. I could see it in the way she carried herself straighter, the way her eyes suddenly seemed hooded. The set of her mouth, once so kissable, now pulled down in a deep frown that on anyone else would have been unattractive.
If this didn't work, the past hour was going to be a complete waste of time. This was my one chance with her -- in this form, at any rate. But I had a feeling that Pan wasn't going to give me that much more lead time. I needed to Hook her. Tonight.
Now.
About thirty feet ahead of us, the flesh puppet I'd summoned leaned against a storefront, smoking a cigarette. He was bigger than me, both in height and weight, and he radiated malice. Interesting how some evil humans have mastered the "don't fuck with me" vibe used by the nefarious. Or maybe we'd learned it from humans. Who knew? Like the boundaries between Land and Sin, at times it all seemed to blend. He smoked, his urge for violence rolling off of him in waves.
"Just another block," Virginia said, her voice tight.
I nodded, kept silent. Had nothing to do with the rather impressive air of intimidation around the man slouching against the building; I didn't want to engage Virginia in conversation. Step Two would work much better if she wasn't focused on me -- if she understood the danger as it was happening, instead of acknowledging it after the fact.
We walked, and the human smoked. Waited.
I even had a token of my affection waiting in my pocket (no, not that, although that was waiting for her too). Mortals liked such things, and for the moment, Jezebel &hellip; Jesse Harris &hellip; was mortal. Like others of her sex, she was an idiot for jewelry, even though she had a tendency to lose it or give it away. But once she wore my ring, she'd never want to take it off. I just knew it. I'd have to be careful when I took it out of its box to present it to her, of course; the diamond in its center was as deadly to me as marriage was to men. But women loved that shit. And Jezebel was worth it.
My Jezebel.
I grinned, imagining her reaction. She'd make a perfect Queen of Lust.
Then I frowned. What if she said no?
Shit.
I downed my drink. Ordered another. Maybe getting drunk was the best way to proceed.
Twenty minutes and who knew how many drinks later, she strutted onstage, began to dance and break men's hearts with every careless smile, every grind of her hips.
My head swam as I watched her, but it had nothing to do with alcohol. It was something uniquely her, something elusive and exquisite. Something I would die for.
Off came the clothes. Out came the wallets. Soon she had a garter of money around her thigh, like something out of a Coveter's wet dream.
I watched her dance in the spotlight, her body a thing of red and yellow beauty. I stood, ready to approach the tip rail and request a private dance, and once I got her alone I'd floor her with my power. I'd even put on the crown, if she wanted; women loved a man in uniform. And then &hellip;  &hellip; my power &hellip; And then &hellip;  &hellip; my power doesn't &hellip; And it hit me, as I watched her, sucked the air out of me and slammed my ass back down into my chair.
My power doesn't work on her, I'd said to Jezebel so long ago, speaking of the one who'd teach me things about myself I didn't know I had to learn. And Jezebel had replied &hellip; Of course it doesn't. She's meant for Heaven. Your magic can't touch her, not if it's with malice aforethought.
I thought of how I'd tempted Jezebel, freshly scrubbed in her Jesse Harris body -- how she'd danced with me, how my power had swayed her. How malice had most definitely been in my mind as I made her body sing with pleasure. How I'd done almost everything I could to sabotage her so-called relationship with the prude apostle. How her voice sounded when she'd called my name.
She's meant for Heaven. Your magic can't touch her.
My magic had done more than touch Jezebel. It had seduced her.
Again and again.
Jezebel wasn't meant for Heaven.
A laugh bubbled in my chest, and I let it out in a loud chortle.
A waitress near my table turned to look at me. "Sir? Everything all right?"
"Definitely." I grinned, felt my fangs extend as the force of Hell rippled through my body. "All is right with the world."
When the mortal Jesse Harris died -- for real, no rescue missions to the Pit, no near misses, but for-all-time dead -- her soul was going to Hell.
And then Jezebel would be mine.
I toyed with the idea of going up to the tip rail and stuffing a fiver down her garter and flashing my fangs, just for the Hell of it. But no -- I'd promised that if she helped me, I'd leave her alone. For now.
So instead I dug out the small box with the deadly ring and left it on the table. The waitress was going to get the best tip of her life.
Grinning like I owned the world, I marched out of Spice, ready for anything.
I don't have to steal you away from your meat pie, Jezebel. You go ahead and play at this love thing. You can even grow old with him for all I care. Live your life to the fullest, babes.
I can wait.