Coed Demon Sluts , livre ebook

Book View Cafe - Jennifer Stevenson

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

117 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Aren't you tired of doing everything right?Wouldn't you like a second chance to go back and do it wrong?Coed Demon Sluts. Always room on the team._________________________________________________As a child, Pog ('Person Of Girth') was her wealthy parents' little angel until she started gaining weight. They gave her an ultimatum: lose the weight, or be kicked out of the family. Ten years later she was a fat, broke whore-and then Delilah offered her a chance to be a thin, rich whore for hell. Today, Pog is the coed demon sluts' team leader, taking guff from no one, not even her supervisor Ish Qbybbl.Ish has happily supervised his field ops via Skype from his private cubicle at the Regional Office. But when they win the Demonic Intramural Basketball Tournament and put him in danger of a promotion, Ish panics and goes into hiding with his coed demon sluts. Can Pog save Ish from his jealous demonic boss? Or will their secret history crack her open and leave her defenseless in hell's prison?The fifth adventure in the Coed Demon Sluts series!

Sujets

Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Fantasy

Informations

Publié par	Book View Cafe
Date de parution	25 juillet 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781611386301
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

COED DEMON SLUTS: POG
Jennifer Stevenson

www.bookviewcafe.com Book View Café 2017 Copyright © 2017 Jennifer Stevenson
For my babe, Rich
POG
“You have to eat something ,” I pleaded. Good grief, Jee looked awful. She was beyond pudge. “C’mon. Just have a little? You’ll lose twenty pounds, boom.”
“I feel fine,” Jee said. My once lethally svelte roomie looked around two hundred pounds. We used to trade clothes. I went with the slutty blonde newscaster look, she went with the hot Indonesian supermodel look. Since she was now keeping her red-brown succubus body about eighteen inches shorter than usual, this was unattractive.
I said so. “Girl, nobody wants to fuck a fat girl.” This was not technically true. I’d been a fat girl selling it for eight years and found plenty of people to fuck me. Although they were not, as a rule, nice about it. In her current emotional state, Jee would have a hard time with the not-nice part. And then she’d be screaming in her sleep again.
My name is Pog and I’m a succubus for hell. At this point, I’d been doing it about two years. Jee and I started at the same time—being succubi that is. I started in the trade at age nineteen. She started at age five. Hers is a horrible story. Slavers from Thailand picked her up on the beach in Sumatra after the tsunami flattened it, and they took her back to Bangkok for seven years. She was recruited out of there by the same demon who recruited me. She’s convinced they were about to kill her anyway. She’d been getting angry. Not a survival trait for a child sex slave.
It was a great survival trait once she got to Chicago. Anger had been my roomie’s greatest defense, until now.
Now she had Reg. Our onsite manager-slash-houseboy. His own story was even worse, in a way, since he was twenty-three when Jee rescued him from his abusive mother—she used to beat the soles of his feet with a switch until he couldn’t walk, among other things. Ish recruited Reg, and then Jee subjected Reg neatly in three swift, economical moves, and that worked okay for a little while.
Then something happened. Jee started waking up screaming, and Reg grew a pair of cojones somehow, and now, between wall-banging fights and head-banging sex, the two of them had been hiding in her perfumed bower twenty-four/seven, nurturing their fucking sensitivity, while proper succubus life went on around them.
Jee herself had not immediately adjusted well to being told she couldn’t work. We were no prudes, but we drew the line there. She had revealed to Reg that she was actually only fifteen, including her two years working with me for the Regional Office before Ish set up our team.
This was after she asked Amanda for a cone of silence so she wouldn’t wake us up when she had a night terror and screamed the ceiling tiles down.
We told her, You can come trolling for scores with us when you stop waking up screaming . Reg backed us up on that, and for a miracle she accepted it.
This did not mean she liked being told No by her houseboy. Jee was also pissed because, first, Reg’s mom had a stroke and he was over at the hospital a lot, and then she died, so Reg kept going back to his mom’s house, winding up the old bat’s ha-ha estate.
“I’m in a good place,” she said as I stood over her with the frittata skillet. “I still get a lot of flashback, but Reg is there to see me through it. And when he gets flashback, I’m there for him. I don’t want to work. We don’t need money.” We. We used to be Jee and me. Now Jee had a new we .
“It’s my cooking, isn’t it?” The thought was a dagger in my heart. I don’t have much to call my own, but part of me is a hell of a cook. “If I fed you something you really liked—”
“Oh, Pog, you know that’s not it. I love your cooking.”
Then why aren’t you eating any of it? No point calling her a liar. I wailed, “You’ll outgrow all your clothes! You look disgusting!”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Beth sailed into the kitchen wearing sweats, looking like a cheerleader captain. This wasn’t a good sign. It meant that she intended to help me clean up. “Jee, honey, I’m sure she doesn’t mean that.” She sent me a mom look. “Pog, you know Jee is in a fragile condition. Do you want me to take that plate?” she cooed to Jee.
Jee hunched a shoulder. Sometimes she’ll take momming from Beth, sometimes not. “Reg will be back in a minute,” she said as if Reg had gone to Antarctica for anchovies. In fact, Reg was running the vacuum cleaner in the hall. “I’m still nibbling.”
She was. She’d had barely a thousand calories for breakfast, which is usually our biggest meal of the day because we sleep seven to ten hours without food.
“You’ll never get your forty-five hundred calories down the hatch this way,” I pointed out. We succubi can shape our bodies into any form we like, but we have to keep them fed. A lot. Or else they get fat. Hence the shape Jee was in now.
“I’m not really hungry,” Jee said. She pushed her five-cheese frittata away, and Beth swooped in and carried the plate to the sink.
“Hey,” I said sharply. “I am not cooking to have it thrown down the disposal.”
But Beth was already shoveling the last of Jee’s frittata into her own face. Then she chucked the empty paper plate in the garbage and put the fork in the dishwasher.
The door opened. “I’m done, Mistress,” Reg said breathlessly. “I vacced the hall too.”
Jee sent him a sappy smile.
“Are you getting to the bathroom today?” I asked waspishly.
Reg looked up from murmuring over Jee. “Right away. As soon as she starts her nap.” He tenderly led Jee out of the room and across the hall to her bedroom, in the princess spot right next door to the bathroom. Jee murmured back, and Beth and I got a view of them nuzzling revoltingly until her door shut .
A waste of a good succubus .
I guess I said it out loud.
Beth said from the dishwasher, where she was loading dirty flatware and aluminum skillets, “She doesn’t need the money, you know. Even I have enough to retire on, and I’ve only been doing this for one summer.”
I took a skillet out of her hands and started scrubbing. Dammit anyway. Reg should be doing this . Okay, he was keeping our Jee, currently fragile, always a fucking diva, contented and quiet, which is also a full-time job. But our team had grown. I was cooking for seven, not four.
I snarled, “It’s not the money. It’s the principle of the thing.”
She just cocked an eyebrow at me. Beth being tactful is ten times more annoying than Beth being a pushy, nosy ex-North Shore socialite and mom.
I corrected that. “Okay, it’s our ethos. We were a team. We knew what men were for and we used them.”
“She uses Reg now.”
“She’s not using Reg,” I said bitterly. “They’re in looove. It’s disgusting. She’s won’t eat anything I cook for her—” That hurt so much I couldn’t say more.
“Maybe—maybe feeling safe has made her lose her appetite,” Beth said.
“I can see that!” To my horror I realized that tears were running down my face.
Beth put the scrubby sponge down and put her arms around me from behind. “She’s healing, Pog honey. I’m so happy she’s got Reg to see her through it. And he’s healing too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I snorted through my tears, grateful for her cuddle, though I would die rather than admit it. “I don’t get it,” I added before she could scold me again. “They were both underfed for years as kids. His mom chained him up in the basement and fed him generic mac’n’cheese. Why won’t he eat now?”
I returned to scrubbing angrily at the pan until it slipped out of my hand and fell clanking into the sink.
Beth hugged me tighter. “They’re not eating to bury their emotions any more. They’re feeling them. That takes immense courage.”
“Like you know!” I struggled out of her embrace and glared at her. “You don’t know anything about food and fat people. What do you do, read the psychology articles in the magazines in the check-out line?”
“I only meant—”
“Let me tell you something about fat and food.” I clenched my wet fists in my apron. “When I was thirteen, I started gaining weight. I got every diet, every pill, every fancy fat camp and clinic-slash-spa. I got psychotherapy. I got shock therapy. I got a personal trainer, and when I gained weight while I was working with her, my parents fired her and hired another personal trainer. They caught the cook sneaking me food and they fired her. Broke my fucking heart. She’d been teaching me how to cook.”
I had to swallow. “We would go to a restaurant and they would get forty-five-day aged steaks and duchesse potatoes at a hundred dollars a plate, and I’d get five spinach leaves. Eventually they noticed that even the waiters were looking at us. Want to know their solution? They left me home.”
Beth made a noise in her throat.
I settled my skinny succubus butt against the edge of the sink. “So when they ate out, I stayed home and cooked—oh how I cooked! As soon as the car disappeared down the driveway, I would sneak off to the store and buy food and take it home. I made fabulous things—souffles, Chateaubriand, Beef Wellington, bagna cauda , sopa avgolemono , anything. As long as I thought I could cook it and eat it and clean up the kitchen before they got home.”
“Honey—”
“When they started taking vacations without me, I really went to town. I had time to make dishes that took days to prepare. I took control of being fat.”
Beth blinked. “But you’re not fat now.”
“Being fat was just the beginning, Beth. After I left home, I turned tricks for eight years. I was homeless almost the whole time. Sometimes I’d share a room with another girl, but that never lasted. Roommates stole my food and my money. They hit me. Their pimps hit me. Their boyfriends hit me. Mostly I lived on the street, where everybody hit me. If I got mad enough I could fight them off. If it was just one at a time,” I added bleakly. I jerked my shoulder at memory. “But I couldn’t stay mad. You get hungry and scared and so, so dirty, and there’s no end to it. And nobody cares, because you’re fat. I turne