The room was dark, the shades drawn and blinds shut despite it already being on the verge of midnight. It was better that way you figured, in case anything happened, and indeed it did. No one needed to see this. No one else was worthy of seeing this.
The air was clear and then it wasn't. That was how it began: a bit of smoke on the air at the center of the diagram drawn in salt and wax upon the floor. Even before that point, the soft scent of burning candles and incense touched your nose. But then something else tickled your nose. Something different. Something promising of what would come.
It was a familiar smell of course all things said and done. You'd smelled that same scent before on your fingers when you lay in bed and masturbated, thinking of another woman joining you there rather than just yourself reading a piece of erotica.
A bit of smoke in the air where there should have been none, and then that oh so familiar smell of wet, pink, intimate excitement filled the air and graced your nostrils.
You smiled and watched it unfold. There was no more ritual, no crescendo of chanting or sacrifices to be made. Those things were spectacle and showmanship with no relevance to the event at hand. Those were fantasy and superstition, but this, this was real and this was happening.
The smoke poured out of empty space, like a ball of flame burning in the absence of gravity, flowing and bubbling like liquid. It filled the hemispherical confines of the circle drawn upon the floor, bound by your words, your will, and your stated desires.
You smiled as the smoke or something contained within and beyond it issued a soft exhalation and a gasp of ecstasy. With that pronouncement of her arrival, the flowing smoke began to take tangible shape: a woman's form accreting from out of Hell, or simply out of your fantasies, and given tangible form.
Belatedly you kicked aside your blouse, bra, panties, and skirt from where they'd pooled at your feet. You wouldn't need them when she arrived, and you'd only remembered their presence once you'd started to touch yourself as her body began to congeal. You'd undressed well before you'd finished the summoning ritual.
Gods above and demons below, you were sopping wet even before she arrived to sate your deepest desires.
A succubus. That's what she was.
A succubus. One of Hell's temptresses. A whore of the Abyss. A demon harlot. All of those titles weren't titles so much as descriptors by men and women throughout history who lacked understanding of what those creatures they called to actually were. Even then you didn't know yourself what they actually were, and so descriptors would have to suffice.
It wasn't all that difficult really. You simply needed to know the right words, the right gestures, and of course the correct summoning circle: a specific Goetic diagram not found in any of the mundane copies of the Lesser Key of Solomon floating about the internet, but one found in a private collection. The book wasn't something you acquired, not through normal channels, but that was something to worry about some other time. That's how it always was though. The book and its knowledge wasn't so much passed down or purchased from buyer to buyer, but somehow by chance or catastrophe, the book itself found itself falling into the hands of those willing to utilize it.
There was also the price.
There was always a price.
Always.
It seemed deceptively paltry at first: a drop of a woman's blood, your blood, from a fresh cut upon your left hand. A token of the greater price really. The book was infuriatingly vague about that compared to the elaborate detail on the summoning ritual itself and how much it promised, and it seemed to promise everything.
You were lonely. You were smart but socially marginalized, half through society's biases and half through your own inability to play the same stupid game the monkeys around you played, chattering and making fools of themselves.
No. You were better than them. You deserved something more. You deserved a partner who wouldn't judge you, who understood how you thought, who cared for you, who understood and appreciated your deepest desires.
You would have such a partner even if you had to summon her, which of course was exactly what you were doing courtesy of the book in your right hand.
The book itself wasn't wholly devoted to summoning a succubus: that was only one reference and corresponding ritual within its pages, one of the oldest and earliest such collected bit of forgotten magic. It was also in translation, with the original source text of course having been written in a dead and nearly forgotten dialect of either West Syriac or Palestinian Aramaic penned in repeating verse along the margins of a so-called demon bowl. They were pieces of pottery with magical spells (or more often gibberish written by illiterate artists) in a bowl filled with evaporated sea water and thus rimed with salt, buried at the corners of a home to ward away misfortune. This one was special. This one had contained actual power. This one had, as it had with others throughout history presumably, found its way into your hands, courtesy of the book that contained its words.
You wanted a woman devoted to you and your desires. You wanted a woman to love you. You also had a kink for anything evil, and so a succubus seemed more than appropriate. The wording of course had been somewhat dubious:
"Submission is purchased / A demon called to be / A succubus of the Pit / Something lost and everything gained"
