Her eyes went wide.
Then filled completely.
Then she made a sound that was not a moan and not a laugh and not a cry but contained elements of all three, her hands coming up to cover her face with her fingers spread like she needed to see through them but also needed them there.
The succubus laughed.
Full and warm and genuine — her boobs bouncing with it, her wings spreading briefly with the amusement, her golden horns bright in the lamplight.
"I like him," she said to no one in particular.
Soha said something behind her hands.
It came out entirely muffled.
He pulled one of her hands away from her face.
Looked at her.
She looked back at him — red-faced and wet-eyed and comprehensively undone and still trembling from the orgasm and with his cockhead pressed warm and slick against her folds and the succubus laughing warmly in the armchair.
She opened her mouth.
"Y-you... don’t, not in front of her, it’s embarrasing."
Her tear fell.
Not the overflow-tears of before — not the sensory-system venting or the involuntary cracking. A single tear, tracking down from the corner of her eye in a slow, deliberate line, falling from the curve of her jaw and landing on the back of his hand where it rested against her cheek.
Warm.
He felt it land.
His chest did something he didn’t perform for the room — a fractional tightening, there and gone, the involuntary response of a body that has registered something and decided not to broadcast the registration.
He chuckled instead.
"What am I supposed to do," he said.
He looked down at her — at the tear track, at the red-rimmed eyes, at the pregnant belly pressing warm between them, at his cockhead still slick and pressed against her folds, the pre-cum mixing with her slick in a thin bead that dripped from the junction of them onto the floor.
He looked up at the succubus.
"My woman doesn’t want me."
Soha made a sound.
"I—" The sound that came out wasn’t quite a word. Her face flushed the full red of someone who has been described as ’my woman’ in front of an audience while naked and postorgasmic and with a man’s cock touching her pussy. "That is not — I didn’t say I—"
"She’s embarrassed," the succubus said warmly.
"Of course I—" Soha pressed her hands over her face again. "Not in front of her. Don’t — you can’t just—"
"Of course, of course," the succubus said, already standing, her enormous wings folding behind her, her hands smoothing the front of her dress.
She took one step toward the door.
He chuckled.
"Why leave?"
She stopped.
"Just remove your clothes," he said, "and keep her company."
The room went silent.
Soha’s hands dropped from her face.
She stared at him.
"What are you—" Her voice came out at a pitch she hadn’t used since the warehouse. "What are you saying—"
The succubus rubbed her forehead.
Her enormous boobs shifted with the motion of her arm, the dress straining further at the neckline, the deep cleavage pressing forward as her hand rose. She stood there for a moment with the expression of a woman who has lived long enough to have heard many things and is currently processing the most straightforward of them.
"Indeed," she said finally.
Her hand dropped.
"I forgot." Her voice carried something between resignation and amusement, the two registers occupying the same sentence without conflict. "You are, after all, a man."
Her hands went to the dress.
The zipper at the back — she reached behind her with the practiced ease of someone who has done this thousands of times in thousands of rooms — and pulled.
The sound of it was small and decisive.
The dress fell.
Not slowly — in one clean drop, the fabric releasing from her body and landing around her feet in a puddle of stretched cloth, and then she was standing in the warm lamplight of the apartment without it, and the room held that for a second.
She was — comprehensive.
The boobs were even more than the dress had suggested — freed from the fabric, they were enormous, round and heavy and full, hanging with the weight of them but not sagging, the skin pale cream with the tracery of blue veins visible underneath, the pink nipples at the front elongated and already stiffened in the cool air, the tips a dark dusty rose where the blood had gathered. Each breast the full weight of something that required both hands to hold, the undersides warm curves that rested against her ribcage with a softness that caught the lamplight differently than everything else.
Below them, her waist narrowing before the hips flared outward into the full span of her thighs — wide, pale, the inner thighs pressed together with the weight of her build, the blonde hair of her pussy catching the light in a soft gold triangle between her legs, the pink of her lips just visible through the curls, puffy and warm-looking, the hair there thick and natural and absolutely unmanaged.
Her tail.
Pink. Thin at the base, flicking once as it emerged from the base of her spine, the tip curling in the air with the slow independent motion of something that expressed mood without consulting its owner.
It flicked toward him.
Her wings stayed folded.
Her golden horns caught the lamplight.
She stood there with one hand holding her own breast — not performing it, just the weight-management habit of a woman built like that, her fingers pressing into the flesh to hold it at a comfortable angle — and looked at him with the specific look of a succubus who has removed her clothes in a room and is watching the room react.
His cock twitched.
Soha felt it.
The jerk of the shaft against her folds — his cock pressing harder into the wet cleft without his hips moving, the pure involuntary blood-pressure response to the visual, the fat head nudging deeper between her puffy lips with the twitch.
"Wait—"
The word came out thin and automatic, her hips shifting backward by reflex.
He pinned her.
Both hands — one on her hip, one flat against the floor beside her, his weight coming down over her, his body pressing her down with the full warm mass of him, the pregnant belly caught between them, his cock now positioned directly at her entrance with no gap between the head and where she ended.
She grabbed his shoulders.
"Wait — wait, adjust — I can’t—"
He didn’t enter.
He held there — the head at the threshold, the pre-cum slick tip pressing against the ring of her entrance, feeling the tight resistance of it, feeling her walls fluttering against the pressure with the involuntary contractions of a body that didn’t know whether to open or close.
Behind him, warmth.
The succubus moved.
Her boobs made contact with his back first — both of them, pressing flat against the muscle there, the enormous soft weight of her chest spreading against his shoulder blades, the elongated nipples pressing into his skin like two warm points. Her skin was impossibly soft. Not human-soft — something categorically different, the skin of a being made for contact, the texture of it carrying a faint warmth that registered as more than temperature.
His spine straightened involuntarily.
Her arms came around him from behind.
Her hands found his hips — both palms pressing against the V of his hipbones, her fingers splaying over the muscle there, and then one hand moved lower, between them, finding his balls.
She cupped them.
Her palm warm and soft and deliberate, her fingers pressing the full weight of them upward in a slow, rolling massage, her thumb dragging in a circle against the base of the sac while her other hand pressed his hip forward.
"Hngh—"
The sound came from him.
Low and involuntary, his hips pressing forward a fraction from her palm’s pressure, his cock nudging deeper against Soha’s entrance.
Soha made a sound.
"Nnh—"
The succubus’s mouth found his shoulder blade.
Her lips pressing into the muscle there, then her teeth grazing — not biting, just the edge of them, the warmth of her breath on his skin mixing with the warmth of her boobs against his back.
She kissed up his shoulder.
Slowly. Each press deliberate. Her lips moving from blade to the curve of the trapezoid to the back of his neck while her hands continued their work — one massaging his balls, the other pressing his hip, guiding, adjusting his cock’s angle with the soft directional authority of experience.
"Come on, honey," she said.