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There’s a belief in the lore of the succubus that it needs semen to survive. Ryleigh found that idea odd for two reasons. The first was that it made the succubi’s existence almost sympathetic because how else was it going to live if not to take seed from men? One did not walk up to men and ask for their seed with a measuring cup. It painted them as monsters just to survive, when they could have easily just been depicted as creatures with a love for the game. Then again, depicting anything female as having fun or enjoyment without reason seemed antithetical to most ancient myths.

The second reason was that Ryleigh had been called a succubus several times in her life and she hadn’t needed a drop of semen to do what she did. That’s not to say she didn’t enjoy the sight of it spurting out of some guy’s shivering cock like a geyser, or how it filled up condoms like a balloon ready to be popped. But to consume it? Ryleigh wouldn’t deny she swallowed her fair share of semen but none of it was crucial to her survival.

“No more,” wheezed an unnamed frat bro on the floor. He’d been wheezing it for the past twenty minutes and his cock was too soft to make use of. Ryleigh tried to tell him she was done, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes glazed up to the ceiling where fresh stains from last night’s party painted a Picasso of college fraternity life. She tried to remember his name, certain he was one of those who actually said his name upon inviting her to the party, but it fell short of her attention.

He was one of many college bros exhausted from the night before. Their sore bodies covered the floor, naked and amassed atop one another in piles. Only the light of the TV screen and the rising sunlight from the morning sun illuminated the leftovers of the prior night’s rager. The lioness lounged on the couch, trying to avoid any cum stains leftover as she pondered what the name of the fraternity was. It had something to do with a Greek letter.

“Breaking news,” said a skunk on the television screen. Despite her professional tone her eyes were daggers to someone not in her vision. Probably her boss for giving her this story. “Are succubi real? Some college parents think so. Parents of fraternity members are seeing their children drained of enthusiasm and energy. When pressed by college professors, who should be closer to the phenomenon, one common thread comes into question. One day the boys were fine, then after one party they seemed to walk as if the soul were drained out of them, unable to pursue their desired fields of finance, marketing, or other business-related studies. Some believe that it is some new drug at work, but medical staff examining the boys find them all severely dehydrated.”

Boys. Ryleigh looked over at the 20’s something boy at her feet and scoffed. The world had a habit of infantilizing men when they make a mistake while victim blaming women. Not that she was justified in making each fraternity exhausted but she gave them what they asked for; a good time. Something she kept failing to grasp.

Seeing her time in the fraternity shortening, Ryleigh got up to get her clothes. They were somewhere, just not in the living room. Retracing her steps, she found her top in the foyer hanging on a hat rack. She carried it beside her to find her bra, having no need to dress herself when she’d spent the entire evening naked and had the morning to herself and exhausted men.

Being a college frat house the living quarters only differed in decoration. She found her panties in one with a tall standing mirror, giving her a moment to look over herself before slipping them on. Various words and phrases, none of them pleasant in upstanding company, were written over her body. Bitch, slut, various arrows with the word ‘hole’ directed to them, tally marks, a few feline remarks like how she’s queen of the bush instead of the jungle. She wasn’t unused to specism on college campuses, even if it came from other felines. It was all part of the illusion. The allure of being passed around.

Clearly whoever was keeping track of her tally marks did a poor job. They stopped at seven.

There was a time Ryleigh would have been disgusted by all of this. A time when she was innocent but curious, where she couldn’t shift between someone’s fantasy and someone’s reality. There were of course bad apples that spoiled the bunch, but her heart had hardened to the point of apathy. Especially knowing that she walked the next morning whilst everyone else crawled.

Still she thought about that time. A poster of a black couch and a single rabbit with seven stallions standing behind her brought the memory on. She was fresh out of high school and had been recruited by her old drama teacher to star in something. He didn’t tell her it was porn, but she didn’t turn away when learning of it either. She was curious. Fascinated by the debauchery people would eagerly witness unfold on camera. In hindsight, an orgy was the worst debut for a pornstar. Thankfully none of the guys were that big. Bigger than she’d seen up until then, but their assets were more for their catching than pitching.

That was the start of her little ‘rampage’ as the news called it. Something clicked the moment the camera came on, and by the time it stopped rolling she’d not yet finished. She walked out of the studio leaving each of them as dry as a bone and never looked back.

Did that make her more of a ghost than a succubus? Ryleigh wasn’t sure, but she chuckled to herself at the idea of it. She’d been covered in so much white stuff that she might as well be. With her clothes found she took the liberty of borrowing some flipflops and took to a shower to wash off all the words and liquids. She filled her wallet with excess cash that the bros wouldn’t need or wouldn’t remember going missing. A few dollars from each room added up to a sizable haul for expenses. It was in one of these rooms she noticed a dominatrix poster.

Posters of varying taste were not uncommon in sex-crazed fraternities. Even in the digital age people still liked having pin-ups of their favored muse on the wall. And while she’d seen her fair share of BDSM focused posters, this one drew her attention more for reasons she could not ascertain.

It was nothing special. A poodle dominatrix looking down dismissively at the viewer. The sole of her pawpad designed boot was raised with purpose, as if the viewer was on their knees ready to worship that boot like it was a blessing to do so. If any of the fraternity guys were such submissives then Ryleigh hadn’t seen it. Maybe they were with the other girls, as she’d seen a few make their way out the front door that morning to do their walk of shame, some holding their heads with pride at a night well spent.

It still drew her in. Ever since the orgy shoot, Ryleigh had been wandering. Without direction she strolled from town to town, from bar to bar, from frat to frat, trying to find something that she was starting to realize wasn’t going to be coaxed out from a man’s cock. What exactly she was looking for had no name she understood. It may have been a feeling, or perhaps an idea. Whatever it was, she felt it when staring at the poodle’s eyes, when leering down to the way her leather corset hugged her chest, or how those long boots covered her legs. It was the collar held in the dominatrix’s hand that set something off in Ryleigh. An explosive epiphany that drowned out too much noise to be mimicked into words.

She touched her neck. It was bare. Cold. Wrong. Ryleigh bit her lip and clamped her fingers around it, feeling a tightness that seemed right for the first time in her life. Borrowing someone’s phone, she did some digging on local dominatrix’s, finding a club under the name Ambrosia.

It was a start.

***

Like any good sex club, legal or otherwise, Nectar was nothing to look at from the outside. One had to find it through twisting and turning through alleyways of a part of town that was regularly tagged to keep rent down. Where the foundations were cracked and the shadows lingered, but the signs all pointed the same way. An open secret that everyone did their part to keep alive. Most likely thanks to anonymous donations from wealthy clientele, She assumed as much when they mistook her for someone important as she entered through the nondescript red door.

She didn’t correct them, and had enough money in her wallet to pay off any entry fee. Whatever usual entertainment the person she was mistaken for had was busy with someone else, so she opted to wait at the bar deeper inside. She passed several doors, each sound proof enough that it was only through open cracks she could tell someone was having a good time. Or a bad time. Or a mix of both judging from how they cried out with every snap and crack. Ryleigh wasn’t masochistic enough to understand it, but she wasn’t there to judge. She wanted to learn.

A soft beat emanated throughout the main room to cover the harsh cries and cracking leather. Before entering Ryleigh was handed a mask, a sleek domino mask that anyone who knew her could see through. A formality of privacy. She took it under the assumption that it’d be suspicious not to. Judging from the crowd of masked figures she saw walking in, she was right.

There were more suits and dresses she expected for a kink club. The kind of high-society look one expected in a country club not some secret bunker sex club. Ryleigh reconsidered this as she grabbed a drink by the bar across the room, delighted to find that the drinks were on the house for club members. The rich really do get things for free.

She expected more kink. Sipping her cocktail, she spotted a few out-of-sorts elements. For example, there were a few furs on leashes in various degrees of bondage being led around by members. Some by their neck, some by their privates. Club members themselves looked to be randomly picked by men and women in leather to vanish into other rooms, but by the expressions they shared it seemed preplanned. There was no surprise, just expectation.

Then there were the display pieces. Furs in heavy bondage that were either suspended low enough for others to fondle or locked into positions like statues for groping. Men, women, or something in between, big or small, none were safe from the curious prodding of the well-paying guests.

She considered partaking in it. More than a few writhing display models made her wet her lips at the sight of them. Ryleigh held back because it wasn’t what she was looking for. She could get dick with another fraternity or some random orgy. This hunt was for a curiosity. A connection. One she was about to give up until she saw her.

She walked in on glossy black boots. Her thick body with massive tits bound comfortably tight by a leather corset and stockings, whilst her brown fluffy tail swayed side to side with every step. Her mask was black and feathered yet somehow made her gray eyes pop when they met Ryleigh’s from across the room. The lioness’s heart froze when they locked onto one another, as if the mysterious brown furred skunk had sunk her hand between Ryleigh’s ribs and clutched it.

By her side was a latex clad figure Ryleigh would charitably call a stallion from the fat cock dangling in a long barred chastity cage. He crawled at her side, occasionally acting as a bench for the thick skunk whenever she caught herself in conversation with a guest. Said conversation involved either an exchange of words or an exchange of their tongue against her boots, both of which she was poised to give without issue. It was as if she was simply letting them exist around her.

Ryleigh chugged her drink for courage. She ordered another when that wasn’t enough. Fear was new to her. She knew of it, obviously, but it was a thing that happened to other people. After all, she could walk into a locker room and come out with a salty taste on her lip without breaking stride. But the sight of this skunk made her knees buckle enough that she was thankful for the stool she sat upon.

“Who is that?” She asked the bartender, forgetting that everyone had mistaken her for a club member so far.

They didn’t seem to mind. “That would be Mistress Avena, Miss.” Expecting more and hearing nothing, Ryleigh pressed. “Oh, well, she’s a popular dominant in the club. Most here can be requested by guests, but she picks and chooses who she plays with. It’s made time with her a rarity. Not a currency.”

“A currency?”

The tender nodded. “When you’re rich you start putting value in anything and everything. More than a few dominants have had their sessions traded like coins for bets or requests. May I be blunt?”

Ryleigh slipped him a hundred, thankful that the frat she’d been to was loaded with rich kids, “You may.”

The tender eyed the bill carefully, pocketed it with a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, and leaned closer while mixing their latest drink. They spoke with a low voice. “Many of the dominants hate it. It is one thing to be treated as an exotic event, that’s par for the course. But when you spend time preparing for one customer only to have it be replaced by another who traded you? It becomes impersonal. Mistress Avena is the only one who doesn’t accept such terms. The moment someone tried, she stopped offering her services for sale.”

“So she doesn’t charge?”

The tender laughed, “Of course not. Anyone chosen by Avena, less they are one of her assistants like that stallion, are expected to pay premium fees. Even kissing her foot is billed as a luxury.”

That explained why all eyes seemed to fall upon her when she entered. No doubt anyone would go stiff if someone so unattainable wandered in and joined your conversation with nothing but a warm smile and cool eyes silently judging you. Or maybe they were just a mask. A symptom of a sadistic game the skunk played to watch people squirm at the hope of being her chosen that day.

“How is she so popular?” Ryleigh asked. There was good, but there had to be limits. Even Ryleigh’s skill didn’t stop her from sucking up to guys when she wanted to have a good time.

The bartender shrugged. “Life gets boring when you’re all powerful. Sometimes you need to pretend to be someone else. It’s like cosplaying as a cashier. The difference is that Mistress Avena chooses when that happens. She takes as much control as she wants, and most men of power don’t know how to react. They’re usually so flabbergasted by her approach that they laugh it off when not chosen. But they’re hurt by it. I should know, alcohol is cheap by comparison.”

Normally women didn’t interest Ryleigh. Anything lacking a dick never reached her radar. Yet she couldn’t get Mistress Avena out of her head. Watching the skunk from afar made her yearn for something. It wasn’t lust for she knew that sensation well, but it was a desire of some sort. She braced her neck and remembered what brought her here.

Eventually Mistress Avena made her choice, finding none of the current guests suitable for play. The stallion, like his feral cousins, acted as her mount to carry her outside the ballroom. Ryleigh slipped another bill to the tender, not looking at the number, and slammed down her third drink to work up the courage to follow. It was as though an invisible tether looped around her neck and to pull against it risked injury.

The hallways she prowled were short and narrow. Ryleigh wondered if most of the complex was just rooms to fuck in and the main ballroom given all the doors she witnessed. It took effort to lag behind without being noticed, and not because the stallion Avena rode was struggling on his hands and knees. No, he moved at her walking speed, making it harder to keep up without being noticed.

Eventually they vanished into a room. Ryleigh hid around the corner, watching for any chance of either leaving before she could sneak in. This momentary lapse of movement gave her time to think. Time to question why she was doing this. But thoughts on how ridiculous this all was were stemmed by the image of that gimp toy stallion’s hefty cock. Maybe she was cockdrunk, or maybe she wanted to be cockdrunk with Mistress Avena in the room.

The door creaked open. Ryleigh slipped behind the corner, pressing her back against the wall as if she could sink into it and go unnoticed. Her heartbeat matched the click of heels against the ground. She waited to see if they grew louder or faded, ears perking when the latter happened. Avena was walking away.

Ryleigh snuck into the room. The door wasn’t locked. Why would it be? Obviously that’d be dangerous for any client inside. Still, it felt odd that she had no obstacle inside. These concerns vanished the moment she closed the door behind her.

The walls were covered in a liquid red latex sheen, housing various tools of pleasure and pain. The floor was covered by black rubber matting. One side housed a bed shaped like a heart with red latex sheets, the other held an open door to a closet filled with furniture meant to be rolled out at a moment’s notice. But the wall facing Ryleigh as she walked in housed a single X-cross. There the stallion was waiting, his limbs outstretched so that every bit of his muscles were outlined by the black latex covering him. His eyes were blindfolded, and his maw was filled with a ballgag so thick her jaw ached at the sight of it. But his cock was free. Standing tall, it shivered in the open air as if the slightest breeze was too sensitive for it. A slow but steady stream of precum leaked from the flatheaded shaft. Ears perked at the sound of her entrance, followed by the chin raising in attention for who the stallion assumed she was.

For all of her escapades, Ryleigh had never seen bondage. The atmosphere of the club was new to her, but this was something else entirely. Her previous partners, her drained victims, had always needed to be corralled or tricked. But here was a specimen with a cock that, judging by those heavy nuts, was left out on a silver platter. Almost like…

Like bait.

“Shh,” Avena whispered. Latex gloves caressed Ryleigh’s shoulders, “We don’t want to surprise him, not yet. It would ruin his reward, stalker.”

Ryleigh gulped. How had Avena snuck up on her? She didn’t even hear the knob turn, let alone the creaking of the door. “I think you must be mistaken,” she stammered with a whisper.

“Playing hard to get isn’t fun when you’re desperate,” Avena said, her warm breath looping around Ryleigh’s neck firmer than any hand. She sniffed the air, “And girl, you reek of it. Worse, you don’t even realize just how bad it is.”

The way she talked made Ryleigh’s knees weak. There was a sense of smugness that came not from pride or dislike, but concern. Like she’d found a lost puppy in need of care. “I…”

“Do you know why they pay me the big bucks here? It’s because I can read people. I know whenever a client needs me the most and I give them such a good time that they donate a significant portion of their funds to us even after paying my price. This club is set up for life already because of me and can coast if it so desires. So, I have the freedom to peruse and pick, and dear, the moment we locked eyes I could tell you were looking for me. Maybe not me, but if we’re being honest then no one but me can give you what you’re craving.”

“Y-You’re wrong,” Ryleigh said, not sure if she believed it herself. It was better to deny when the situation didn’t fit her.

Mistress Avena let go. Ryleigh caught her hands from reaching for the skunk’s. Her shoulders felt colder now.

“Fine,” the skunk said with a shrug, “As I’ve said, I’ve no interest in playing hard to get. If you don’t want my help, then you can simply leave and close the door behind you.” She pointed her thumb to the door in question, still opened to a crack. “But if you’re staying, then I expect you to strip and wait on your knees after closing the door. There’s only so much of a wait my pet can stand.”

Ryleigh gulped and, as she believed was best, reached for the door. Her hand hovered over the knob. Why, she wasn’t able to confront. As much as she’d like to pretend that some invisible force held her hand in place, signifying that she had little choice in what she did next, that would be a lie. Avena gave her a choice and held nothing over her. If anything, Ryleigh could hold the skunk’s actions accountable for almost assaulting her. But she didn’t, just as she didn’t open the door to leave. No, Ryleigh closed the door, took a deep breath, and stripped out of her clothes. The loose top, short skirt, cotton panties and bra crumpled into a pile she finished off with a kick of her shoes and socks.

The skunk’s wide hips swayed side to side as she approached the kneeling lioness. An amused look covered her face once she looked Ryleigh over. “Good girl,” she said, her tone more potent than a thousand cocktails. A soft pat on her head sent sparks down Ryeigh’s spine. “I love my pets, potential or otherwise, to be willing. There’s fun in breaking someone with a little resistance, but without the choice to be under my heel it’s just far too stressful. We’re both here for a good time, aren’t we?” Her question came with a gentle clasp of Ryleigh’s chin and a firm pull to make her face the skunk’s grey eyes.

Her throat went dry as if she’d been parched for days. She swallowed, forcing the next word out with barely a whisper. “Yes.”

The skunk smiled but it was lacking something. “Yes what?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Ryleigh said.

Whatever Avena’s smile lacked had been filled now. She kissed the lioness’s forehead and patted her scalp, “Good girl,” she said with a tone that made Ryleigh drunk with joy. “Now, let’s see what you’ve given me to work with.” With care she slipped her fingers past Ryleigh’s lips and pried open her jaw. Curiosity turned to surprise when she saw her tongue. Gloved fingers pressed against it to drag it out, finding it far longer than any tongue of a lioness’s should be. It was Ryleigh’s secret weapon, something that may have led to people calling her a succubus in hindsight.

“You must have some giraffe in you,” Avena said, wrapping the long tongue around two raised fingers. She looked at it carefully, having already accepted its length and now deciding what to do with it. “If you’re worthwhile, I might suggest a few piercings for this. Really make use of this muscle for all that it’s worth.”

She’d listen. Avena could talk her off for hours and Ryleigh would stay engaged. Something about her just set off the right bells. Or maybe they were alarms. Ryleigh didn’t care. She just enjoyed the thrill of being directed by the skunk. Like how her spine tingled as Avena ushered her on all fours and led her across the room by her headfur until she kneeled in the shadow of the gimp stallion’s shaft. That twitching mass of pulsing veins and meat with the heavy musk of someone eager for release. Ryleigh licked her lips but held herself steady, digging her fingers into her legs as she fought the urge to devour the rod.

Avena pet her scalp. “And here I thought I’d need to discipline you. Tell me, why are you waiting?”

Isn’t it obvious? Ryleigh gulped, “I-I want you to tell me.”

“Tell you why you’re waiting?”

Ryleigh shook her head, “No. Tell me to start.”

The grip on her head stayed firm. “His sack,” Avena pointed to the loose orbs in question, “I want you to indulge in them first. Savor them.”

Avena buried Ryleigh’s nose in the folds of the stallion’s balls. Ryleigh let her mistress direct her, taking deep breaths of his hearty musk and tasting the salted sweat over his sack. A gagged shudder escaped the stallion’s lips. She wanted to make him scream, but her mistress’s hold kept her in place, kept her grounded to worship as she intended. To savor something she’d taken for granted for so long.

“You are an animal,” Avena whispered, “Wild. Untamed. Unsatisfied. I see you fidgeting with your hands, unsure of what to do while I keep you in place. Patience has never been your strong suit. But that’s alright. I know how I’ll do it. First, it’ll be with bondage, giving you something fruitless to struggle with for all that nervous energy.”

She reminded Ryleigh of the frat parties. How her moments of bliss weren’t just sucking the proverbial life out of men through their dicks, but the moments of being led around or directed. The small humiliations of their markings across her body. It was distant, like a candle across the room.

Avena’s touch was like a hearth on a cold winter night. The skunk directed her up the shaft, humming with interest as the lioness’s long tongue coiled around the pillar of meat. The stallion huffed and shuddered behind his gag, latex stretching with every breath at the mysterious sensation between his legs.

“Shh…” Avena whispered to her bound pet, “Don’t worry. Just let the new plaything enjoy herself. Be a good boy and trust me.” She hadn’t let go of Ryleigh, continuing to direct her past the medial ring and to the flat head of the massive organ. She was about to suckle it until the skunk gave her a simple command to stop, leaning in to whisper something far more devious. Something she never suspected to try.

With Avena’s fat breasts weighing against her back, Ryleigh braced her tongue against the stallion’s urethra. A little push was all she needed to slip inside. “I like to spread him with sounding rods for fun,” the skunk whispered, “He’s so sensitive down there that it’s hard not to.”

Sensitive was right. Her hot tongue had the stallion testing his restraints from the reflexive thrashing. Only Avena’s soft tone kept him from panicking, but his breaths were still quick and tight, walking the edge of a rope. Ryleigh listened to his muffled moans and found them fuel for her fire. The way his insides quivered around her tongue, the way he slacked and strained, it was euphoria. A feeling nearly shattered when Avena told her to withdraw. She did so without hesitation, his salty taste on the tip of her tongue.

“Good. Now, how good is that throat of yours?” That was her only warning. Avena pushed Ryleigh down the shaft, slowly but firmly. Too slow for Ryleigh’s tastes, but she dared not fight against Avena. Dare not disappoint her yet. Not when the surprised sigh from her when Ryleigh took the medial ring without issue made the lioness’s heart skip.

When her nose braced the base of the stallion’s crotch Avena sounded thrilled. Her fingers tightened against Ryleigh’s scalp and pulled her back, then pushed her down. Again and again, harder and faster. Turning Ryleigh’s experienced throat into little more than a masturbation sleeve for her bound plaything. A lesser slut would have held her breath, but Ryleigh had ruined enough frat houses to say otherwise. Her tongue lapped and coiled around the shaft, aching like a wet spring with her movements to leave no spot of the stallion’s cock until he gave in.

Most college guys pumped themselves too much to have much sperm. The stallion had been denied long enough to make Ryleigh remember that guys who fire off like hoses. The hot seed surged down her throat like a flood. Avena held her there, forcing her to suck and slurp her sub’s aching release. In her grasp, Ryleigh tasted ambrosia.

“What is your name, pet?” She asked Ryleigh, using her thumb to wipe away the seed that spilled out over the lioness’s lips.

“Ryleigh, mistress,” she said between breaths.

Avena smiled. “That’s a lovely name. Do you wish to keep it between us? I enjoy keeping the identities of my pets a secret.”

She nodded, “Of course, Mistress.”

***

News of Mistress Avena’s new pet spread quickly. She rarely took in new playthings on a permanent basis, so of course the talk came with both envy and curiosity. Her nickname had been given not by those who’d been graced with the attention of Mistress Avena but by those who’d seen those men return as if drained of their soul; Avena’s succubus.

Ryleigh tried not to smile when she entered behind her mistress. The expression did not fit the hood over her face, leaving only her mouth exposed. Blind by it, she trusted Avena to guide her to whomever she deemed worthy. Her arms were bound, but they were more for the safety of clients than the restraint of Ryleigh. For a succubus was right, and even Avena still needed to train some discipline in her.

She thumbed the steel collar around her neck, realizing how little the title mattered. All that mattered was that she was where she belonged; beside her mistress.