My Succubus Daughter

Preface:

This is an extremely experimental story for me. After writing something relatively safe like "How I Became My Son's Girlfriend", which turned out quite well, I decided to test myself with something a little more risqué.

The Father-Daughter fetish is, I believe, more loaded than its inverted gender counterpart. My intent here is very explorative.

Consider this: if you are looking for quick action, you should skip. If you want hot sex, you may have to wait until part 2. If you are grossed out by the fetish, I wholly understand. If you're willing to endure some heavy teasing, taboo subjects, and a fair bit of late modern prose, this story might be for you.

Enjoy the reading, and please let me know your impressions.

---

My Succubus Daughter

First week of autumn, first week of school. The days grow shorter, and yet flowers bloom.

I get to class early, as usual. In last year's review, Headmaster Tillerson singled me out for my punctuality and commitment. A mostly undeserved praise. While I do like to be on time, and I do love my job, the reason I waltz through the front door as soon as it is unlocked every single morning is to avoid the ordeal of a corridor full of female students.

The air is still warm, the sun still bright, the skirts still shorts and the midriff very much exposed. I dread looking at them, yet I can hardly look away. They are all so beautiful, all of them.

The cheerleaders with their ponytails, the nerds with oversized glasses, the artsy girls and music kids with earbuds perpetually in their ears, the Instagram-perfect influencers with phones glued to their hands, the anime club girls with dyed hair and lanyards full of pins, the rebels with ripped jeans and piercings, the unassuming girls whose casual grace makes them almost invisible to most but not to me, the goths. Oh God, the goths...

I shake away these terrible triggering thoughts. That is not how an educator should look at his pupils, not if he wants to keep his job... and his soul.

My phone buzzes. A little early for spam calls. Who the hell might that be?

It seems I have a friend request. From a girl, no less. Cute one too. Straight black hair, lovely bangs, big blue eyes. Not one of my students, that is certain. I would remember her. Could this be yet another bot, preying on my loneliness with cruelty and mockery?

Let us see... New account, no last name, no friends in common. She does have a few pictures of herself, mostly selfies, some of which are quite suggestive, and a few are very suggestive. Yep, another bot tempting me to invest in crypto.

There's also a message. Should I really bother? Again?

Hi Mister, I'm not great at messages. I'm Ophelia. I need to talk to you. It's important. Please write back!

Definitely a bot, and not a particularly sophisticated one either. One thing I must admit, though: these pictures of hers are just... gorgeous. Dare I say, eerily perfect. Surely generated. Sorry, Ophelia. It was never meant to be. Get thee to a nunnery.

I walk inside the class with my tea thermos, which I cork open and pour in my portable cup like with all the diligence of a true addict. I am basking in this tiny moment of tranquillity when I notice something on my desk. A sketchbook, wide open, left for me to find. This better not be another one of your pranks, Marc.

On the thick white paper is a hurried but not unskilled illustration of a young woman and a tall man, all in manga-inspired style. Judging by the thin glasses and curly hair, I believe the man might be a very flattering depiction of me. Who the girl might be, I cannot tell.

I know Marc can draw, but not in this style, and not this well.

I turn the page and find yet another illustration. In this one, the man and the girl exchange a passionate kiss, enveloped by a halo of hearts. Cute.

I really hope this is not from one of my students. That would be a full can of gasoline on a fire I have no wish to fuel. I should just close the sketchbook and forget about it.

There is also something written below: Graze upon my lips, and if those hills be dry...

A spray of tea escapes my lips, tainting the white paper. I know this handwriting. No, that can't be! I turn another page.

stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

The man -- who is now evidently me -- took the initiative and dove headfirst beneath the girl's skirt. I recognise her now. She is Sammie Taylor. She would be my favourite student -- if I had one, which I do not! She seems to enjoy my attention a great deal.

I'm not supposed to see this. Even if she wants me to, I'm not. I should close this, call her, and calmly confront her on the matter with all the tact of a normal adult. Of course, I do none of the sorts. I turn another page, and another one, and another one.

It seems that my beloved Sammie, who has had straight As with me since she first set foot in my class, has a little crush on me. She has been fantasising about me giving her plenty of kisses, and cunnilingus, and also to make love to her without compromising her virginity. She also seems to imagine me to be a lot more well-endowed than I am and to ejaculate far more than I, or any mortal man, ever could.

The bell rings, which has on me the same effects of ten fire alarms. I hide the sketchbook in my backpack and my shameful erection beneath the desk.

This is going to be a long day.

--

As soon as the first period is over, I head out. I navigate the hallway at a pace between haste and discretion. I do possess the gift of a poker face, though I never used it for gambling. Still, I am ever wary a student or colleague might somehow see through it. I am forced to halt my march when I stumble upon Sammie.

It does not take the uncanny genius of Sir Conan Doyle's prodigious protagonist to puzzle together what is happening. Sammie is down on the ground, seeking something she has lost. Something that might have landed on the floor and accidentally been kicked beneath the lockers. Something she seems quite desperate to find. Consequently, she appears entirely oblivious of how much of her beautiful, young self she is showing to everyone passing by.

Hers is what I would definitely define as a cute little butt, were she not my student. Her shorts do little to conceal it. I must use all my power not to linger on it.

"Miss Taylor," I call her. "Everything okay?"

"Mister Macallister!" She jumps to her feet, adjusting her skirt. "S-sorry I didn't see you there."

"Don't mention it," I smile at her. "Have you lost something?"

"Erm, yeah, I did." She is trying to conceal the urgency of the matter, and I know all too well why she would.

"I think I might have found it," says I, pulling the sketchbook out of my backpack.

Poor Sammie pales as if she had just seen a whole army of ghosts. She dares not speak. She gazes at me with terrified eyes, surely trying to ascertain whether I have seen what I have seen.

"Is that not it?" ask I, faking indifference with exercised skill.

"It is," she stammers. "D-did you look at it?"

I hear a perfidious giggle coming from around the corner. I spot Melanie, pretending not to be looking at us. She's a strange one, little Melanie. She used to be a close friend of Sammie once. Now, she's her bully.

"Well, no," I keep on acting, for the benefit of both. "I assumed the content was personal."

"Oh, it isn't. It's just..." She snatches the sketchbook from me, which I readily give up. "It's just real bad. Like super cringe."

"Mmm, much like my writing," says I.

"You write?" She brightens up, happy to change the subject.

Why in the world would I say that? Am I looking for complicity? With Sammie Taylor? God, if only I could catch my words after they have already flown through the air.

"I have done some writing," I confess. "Enough to know that my time is better spent reading."

"I'm sure it's all great," says she, warming my heart and reddening my cheeks. "You make all this boring stuff sound so exciting -- I mean, not boring, just... you know..."

"I think I do." I give her another reassuring smile. "Well, I'll see you in class."

"Sure!" says she, awash with relief. "And thanks again."

As soon as she is around the corner, I turn to Melanie. "Miss Clover, may I talk to you for a second?"

"Me? Why?" She fakes innocence with the confidence of someone who believes herself untouchable.

"I have reason to believe you pulled quite the prank on your friend," says I.

"She's not my friend," says she, as a paper-cutter would if it could talk. "Did you like--?"

"What you did was not merely inappropriate, it was cruel," I cut her short. "I ask you, please, don't do that again."

She looks surprised, and more than a little disappointed. I'm sure she would be gleeful to learn what is actually going through my head.

I have no notion whatsoever of what came to pass between Sammie and her. They were inseparable, identical in manners, attire, and grades. At some point last year something turned awry. Melanie now seems not to care what everybody thinks, and wants the whole world to know.

Yet, I must admit, rebellion suits her well.

She stands before me with her smirk, her fitted top paired with high-waist shorts and fishnet stockings, her chunky black boots, her tiny stud, and a delicate nose piercing. She also started wearing enough makeup to qualify as warpaint.

Were we the same age, I would have found her irresistible. But we are not, and I only find her barely resistible. On with the poker face we go.

"I trust this will be the end of it," I conclude. "Run along now."

"Whatever," she shrugs and goes.

--

When I finally reach the teacher's lounge, I somehow managed to work myself into even more of a fluster than when I left the classroom. Marc's already there, of course, working the coffee machine.

"Salut Miles," says he, eyes in the back of the head. "Do you want some... let's be generous and call it coffee."

Marc was born in Port-au-Prince, but grew up and studied in Paris. When it comes to coffee, he is a perfectionist.

"I'll stick to my tea, thanks," says I, mechanically. "Did you shave your head?"

"I sure did." He passes the palm over the solid, deep pigmated brow where his thick, black curls used to sprout. "Makes me look younger, n'ést pas?"

"It sure does." Younger than me, in fact. Despite being four years my senior. "Have you seen Gabriela?"

"She'll be here any moment, don't you worry. In the meantime you tell me ce-qu'il-s'passe."

"I don't know... Is something going on?"

"Come on, Miles." He pours himself a cup, tastes it and twists his face in disgust. "Spit it out."

Marc peers into my soul. He is probably the only person in the whole school who can read through my poker face, and won't judge me for it. Nevertheless, I ought to be careful not to say too much.

"I believe a student might have a little crush on me," I hesitantly admit.

"Who? Taylor?"

How in the actual fuck did he...?

"What?" He shrugs. "Elle te kiffait dès qu'elle avait quinze ans."

"Kiffait?"

"She likes you, that much was obvious."

"I don't know what you are talking about," I speak with absolute sincerity, which he does not believe.

"Pas mes oignons." He raises his hands in surrender. "I only expect you to act as appropriate to your role as an adult and an educator. To acknowledge her without encouraging her, patiently wait until she graduates before you start dating."

"I..." am seriously contemplating the idea, and feel dirty for it.

"Je rigole," he punches my shoulder. "Poor miss Taylor does not know that your heart only beats for Gabriela."

I do like Gabriela. A lot. She reminds me that my unhealthy obsession is thankfully not limited to late teenagers. She also happens to be Marc's ex, which strangely enough seems to be a problem only for one of us.

"Have you finally worked up the courage to ask her out?" Marc inquires.

"No." I sigh.

"You should. Woman like her, she won't stay single long," he reminds me, as if I did not know. "You need to grow some, l'ami. Show some initiative. The worst she can do is say no."

"Ha!" I scoff.

"Qu'est-ce-que ça veut dire ha?"

"It means..." I am about to rant and vent. I can but try and not make it look completely childish. "That is male-bovine-excrement, Marc. Gabriela is a colleague and she does not seem to have fond memories of the last time she dated a fellow teacher."

He smiles at the memory, half cynically, half fondly. "Tough but fair."

"Gabriela and I... We're friends, more or less." My joyful sarcasm makes Marc smirk. "Any advances on my part would put her in a difficult spot."

"You're overthinking this."

"Am I?" I shake my head. "She is a kind person. She would be afraid to hurt my feelings. I would make her feel bad for making me feel bad."

"We are not teens, Miles."

"Some things never change," I blurt out. "What if she starts to feel uncomfortable around me? Or what if she says yes out of pity only to stand me up at the last moment?"

"You shrug your shoulders and move on. You think that never happened to me?"

"Did it?"

"No, but it could have." He chuckles.

"And I am sure you would've handled it beautifully," I flatter him, despite my intent to do the opposite. "But I couldn't, Marc. I can't. I... rather bear those ills I have, than fly to others I know not of."

He falls into compassionate and sympathetic silence. Ever undecided between humour and empathy, he opts for both.

"Miles," he speaks with caution. "I ask this almost exclusively out of concern."

I silently invite him to go on.

"T'es vierge?"

"What?" I struggle to contain the volume of my voice. "No! Jesus Christ. No, I am not a virgin."

"Okay." His genuine relief crushes my soul. "Let me rephrase that. When was the last time that you got lucky?"

That is the terrible question, one I dreaded to hear.

"Well..." Oh, what a long voyage down memory lane must I embark on to recollect that piece of information. "It was at a carnival... In Rio... She was a dancer."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, did you say a carnival? As in, not this latest one?

I answer with eloquent silence.

"Was it last year's?"

Silent still

"Okay, forget about it." One must appear exceptionally pathetic to awaken Marc's compassionate side. "How was this Brazilian angel you never told your best friend about?"

"She was more like a Brazilian devil." Indeed, the very memory of her burns. It burns in the best possible way.

"Haha, génial!" He smiles.

"You should've seen her dancing. Her hair, her legs, her... well, you know."

"I do, mon ami. I do."

"It was Rio, of course, and it was the carnival. The streets were packed. But when I saw her, everyone and everything just disappeared. I fell into those big brown eyes of hers. So bright, like embers. I was enthralled."

"And?" He grows curious. "How did you two hook up?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that at some point she leapt off the float and came straight at me.

"With some difficulty." He sips on his cup, still half full.

"I swear it's true," I continue. "I lost sight of her and was about to just go on my way. When she reappeared right in front of me."

"And?" he insists. "What did she say?"

"I have no clue. I don't know a single word of Portuguese."

"Which was for the best, no doubt." He chuckles. "Come on. Don't hold me in suspense, what happened next?"

That is a rather obvious question, to which I have no obvious answer.

"I'm not sure," says I.

"You, sir, are a true Alfred Hitchcock."

"I think she asked if she could kiss me and I said yes. All I know she gave me a tiny pecker and it felt like... The light of heaven and the flames of hell all at once."

"Voilà le poet."

"I wanted more! I asked if I could have another one and I think we made out for about twenty minutes."

"The bare minimum, mon amì. And then?

"We went to her place, or at least I think it was her place. It sure wasn't my hotel room."

"Tiens, tiens, tiens." He gazes at me, pleasantly surprised. "And what did you do there?"

"Everything."

"Details, man. Give me the details? How was she?"

"She was like... the perfect Brazilian beauty, you know? Long, strong legs; a big round butt; perfect tits."

"I'm starting to feel a little envious." That is possibly the highest compliment he ever paid me.

"She also was insatiable. She basically nailed me to the bed and had her way with me for what felt like forever."

"But it was actually three minutes?" he teases me.

"More like three days."

"Okay." He laughs. "Now I am very envious."

"I am not sure you ought to be," says I, though my smile betrays me. "She held me captive for half a week."

"For real?" He oscillates between admiration and concern. "And nobody came looking for you?"

"Oh, yeah. The... guys travelling with me rang me several times." Calling them friends would be a gross exaggeration. "I couldn't answer because of the handcuffs."

"You magnificent bastard."

I am starting to enjoy the narration a little too much. Yet, it is so refreshing to be, for once, the object of admiration and envy. Not just compassion or concern.

"She held the phone up for me, while giving me this amazing blowjob," I go on narrating. "I told everyone that I was fine and that I would spend a few more days in Rio. I missed the plane home, of course."

"I can imagine." He smirks. "And how long did this beautiful mistress keep you on her leash."

"I literally lost track of time." I make him laugh. "At some point I think she accompanied me at the airport. I was more dead than alive. She told me something I could not understand and sent me off. I scarcely remember getting on the plane."

"Great story." He finishes his cup. "Is this really how it all ended?"

"Pretty much." I sigh. "And you know what's funny? I can't even remember her name."

"That's beautiful, mec." He lets out a sympathetic laugh. "C'était la magie."

"I would've liked some more of that magic," says I.

"And you never saw or heard from her again?"

"Not outside my dreams, no." And that hurt. It still does. "I dreamt of her every night for half a year."

"Dreams are important, mon ami." He nods. "Sometimes, they are more important than reality."

"Right... sometimes."

As the conversation fades out, Gabriela strides in.

"Speaking of dreams..." says Marc.

"Hola Gabriela!" I cheer, with my nonexistent Spanish.

"Hola Miles," she returns with a smile that I will treasure for the rest of the day.

"Salut, ma belle." Mark waves.

Her smile fades. "Marc..."

"Would you like some brown water with a vague hint of coffee?"

"No, I just--" She pauses, shifting her gaze between Marc and me. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Oh, yes." Marc smiles. "We were discussing my favourite topic."

"Yourself?"

Marc bursts out laughing.

"Ah, Gabriela. T'es si bonne à me faire du mal." He pours for her, and she reluctantly takes the cup. "No, we were talking about dreams, women, and everything between."

"You don't say," she sips on the cup with little enthusiasm.

"Also, a kid has a crush on Miles."

"Marc!" I roar at him.

"Vaya. It's not Taylor, is it?"

Jesus Christ! Who else knows about that? Is it everyone? Everyone but me?

"I... deeply regret having this conversation," I tell them both.

"Relax, Miles. It happens all the time. Just ask Gabriela." He gives her a teasing gaze. "She is responsible for the sexual awakening of most boys in the school. And several girls too, I bet."

Gabriela glares at him, but does not bite the bait.

"On one thing, he's right," she tells me, with superhuman effort. "You should not make a big deal of it. I'm sure you will act like a professional and an adult."

"Oh, bon sang!" Marc rolls his eyes. "It's been two years. Let it go, petite."