My Ex Is a Succubitch

Twisting the paper in her hands, which, judging by the neat folds, had only recently been carefully tucked away, Jenna giggled and poured herself another glass of wine.

— God… what the hell have I come to, h-i-c… — Jenna laughed, but the sound came out broken. She buried her eyes in the paper — the same crooked scribbles of a spell that, sober, would have seemed like childish nonsense.

— “Read it three times, drip it with wine and imagine his face”... — she mumbled, staggering toward the table. The laptop flickered in the darkness — YouTube was frozen on a clickbait video titled “Succubus caught on camera!!!”

She burst out in a raspy laugh:

— Oh yeah, Dylan, that one’s just right for you.

...

— What, you planning to chew snot at me, Jason?! The money has to be here today! Today, goddammit! — Dylan was yelling from across the city, in his luxurious but cluttered apartment. On the table before him lay a phone, an ashtray, a whiskey bottle, and a crumpled wad of cash.

On the other end of the line, Jason tried to explain himself:

— Dil, I told you, people are stalling… they promised by Monday…

— I don’t give a fuck what they promised! — Dylan jumped up, knocking the chair aside. — Either you bring it by midnight, or start looking for new lungs, you got me?!

He threw the phone onto the couch, grabbed his glass, and downed the last of the whiskey in one gulp. Sweat rolled down from his temples to his neck, and something inside him clenched. His chest burned, as if someone was crushing his heart with a red-hot hand.

— Fuck… this heat’s insane… — Dylan yanked at his shirt collar, unbuttoning it.

With a heavy sigh, he stood up, slammed his fist against the table so hard the nearby lamp rattled, and headed toward the AC remote — but never made it.

A sudden jolt ripped through his chest, like something inside had torn the muscles apart. Dylan doubled over, gasping for air, and at the same time felt something moving under his skin, pushing against his ribs.

— Wh-what the fuck… — he wheezed, bracing his palms against the wall.

His hand reached for his head, and under his fingers he felt a hard lump. At first small, like a bone pressing through the skin. But as he groped at it in shock, it grew, stretched, and bent backward.

— What… what the hell is this?! — he croaked, feeling the lump swelling in his palm, hot and throbbing, like living bone breaking through flesh, until in just seconds his hand was full of solid bone. At that moment, pressure built on the other side — a second horn burst through with the same fury, scraping against the wall, forcing Dylan’s head to the side. His skull felt like it was splitting from within.

— A-a-a-a-a!!! — he screamed, trying to rip them off, yanking and pulling, but every movement sent a sharp, blunt pain into the back of his head, like tearing out teeth — only straight from his skull.

The next moment, a new wave of heat slammed into his chest. He bent over, clutching at his shirt, the fabric stretching tight until the buttons clinked and burst apart in all directions. Under his fingers the skin swelled and pushed forward, shifting his center of gravity, swaying heavier with every second. He gasped for air as two firm mounds swelled beneath his hands, growing heavier and fuller, swelling right into his palms.

— What the… what the fuck is happening to me?! — a strangled growl ripped from his throat as his palms darted desperately over the exposed skin, groping the trembling, burning bulges. The weight pulled down, forcing him upright, and he felt how the torn-open shirt could no longer hide the round shapes.

— N-no… no-no-no!!! — Dylan’s breath broke into a hoarse shriek as his gaze fell to his torso. His breasts bounced with every movement, swollen with flesh, round, unmistakably female.

And then, from below, another wave hit, and he felt a sharp spasm in his groin, like something inside had been twisted into a tight knot. He doubled over, grabbing at the waistband of his boxers, feeling the fabric strain against widening hips, tearing apart with a scraping sound. Where just a second ago his source of pride had hung, there was now only emptiness and a burning sensation, like something was shrinking, pulling inward.

— No-o-o… — he moaned, his voice cracking as he tried to find what was already gone. His fingers brushed against smooth, hot skin and a strange, pulsing pattern. He jerked, looking down, and saw a bright pink symbol emerging right on his crotch — a glowing heart, like a living tattoo, searing at his touch.

Something tore in his back, and he nearly collapsed forward, grabbing at the wall. A sharp rip of fabric followed, and from the shredded boxers burst a long, flexible growth. Dylan spun in horror and saw behind him a black tail writhing in the air, its tip curling into a sharp arrowhead.

— This… this is a dream… please, let this be a fucking dream!!! — he screamed, but his voice rang higher, sharper, breaking into a frantic feminine pitch.

...

Pouring herself another glass of wine and staring at the candles as they burned low, Jenna burst out laughing, only to choke on a hiccup. Wine spilled over the rim, dripping onto her hand and sliding down her fingers. She shook her head, as if trying to shake off the drunken haze.

— Ha… that’s it, Miss Vendetta, — she muttered, raising the glass to her face and squinting. — “Read three times, drip with wine… imagine his face.” Dylan, Dylan… you son of a bitch. If you knew what I was doing here, you’d die laughing.

She could barely stay on her feet, staggering from the table to the bed. Somehow she managed to drag herself there, dropping her glass with a crash — wine spread across the sheets, leaving a dark red stain. Jenna collapsed face-down, burying her face in the pillow and stretching out her hand as if waving to someone:

— Su-cubus… oh ye-ah, — she mumbled, throwing her arm back over her head. — That’s perfect for you, Dylan. The coolest guy in the hood… big boss… and suddenly — tits and a tail. — She broke into laughter, but it came out hoarse, drained.

Her head was buzzing from the wine, her thoughts just as tangled as back then, the night she went to that strange woman. Jenna barely lifted her lashes, stared at the ceiling with a bleary gaze, and smirked to herself.

That evening the rain had been pouring, she’d stepped into the damp stairwell in her soaked coat, instantly catching the smell of wet earth and grass. The woman looked like she had fallen out of an old book — or like some cheap con artist — but Jenna had been desperate then, knowing she couldn’t do a damn thing to her ex, who was one of the big shots in the gangster world. Back then she’d been shaking, from anger or from cold, telling the woman about Dylan: how he mocked her, how he treated her like nothing, how he lied and threw money at her like he was buying her patience, moving on to more and more disgusting details of their “happy” life together.

And the witch had only listened, nodded, and at the end handed her a piece of paper, telling her about the ritual. Jenna had laughed bitterly at the time, but she still took it. “What if,” she thought, though she didn’t believe.

Sleep was slowly pulling her under, and the last scraps of thought flashed in pictures: Dylan screaming into the phone, Dylan always with a bottle, always with a cigarette, his smug smirk when he came up to her to do the things she was ashamed to speak of… and next to that image she now had another: the same Dylan in tight thongs and a corset, dancing in his own strip club, stilettos on his feet with ridiculously huge heels, and massive boobs bouncing to the rhythm of the music and his moves.

Jenna burst into a laugh-sob, covering her mouth with her hand, and buried herself in the pillow.

— What if… what if it’s real… — flashed through her head, but the laughter caught her again, breaking into hiccups.

Her eyelids were sticking shut, and somewhere on the edge of sleep and wakefulness her filthy fantasies of Dylan’s new life flickered.