Coed Demon Sluts: Omnibus: Coed Demon Sluts: books 1-5

by Jennifer Stevenson

  Once I settled down, two thoughts came to me.

  I could have talked my way out of that, and, If only they would quit saying his name.

  I stood in the middle of my room, twitching.

  I was through taking shit from anybody.

  I took all my clothes and jewelry off and looked in the mirror.

  There I was, twice my original height, beautiful and scarless and smooth.

  Is this underage? Is this some little kid crying and sucking her thumb? It was so unfair of them to say all that stuff and then flounce out of here, all superior and grown up. Listen to me.

  I played with my look in the mirror, making myself taller, thinner, sexier, more muscly, until I looked like a cartoon superhero. All that was missing was the spandex and the shiny boots.

  Oh, yeah, real grown up.

  That gave me an idea.

  I went into Pog’s room and tossed through her top dresser drawer. She had half a dozen plastic badges. I picked the least showy-looking. Something to offset my natural flamboyance.

  That made me realize I probably had nothing in my wardrobe to go with the badge.

  I went through Amanda’s closet without compunction. Sure enough, she had a couple of big, boxy, navy-blue pantsuits made out of polyester or plywood or something attractive like that. With a plain white shell underneath, no jewelry, and, I realized with a sigh, no makeup—I scrubbed it off—and the badge pinned behind my lapel, some flat shoes—maybe a briefcase? Did Amanda have a briefcase? Of course she did. It was full of papers. I felt a little uncomfortable about the briefcase. Tempted though I was, I left it in her closet. Instead I dug up the clipboard we’d used to track the construction crew incentives rotation during the Lair’s renovation. It had plenty of official-looking, well-scrawled-on papers under the clip.

  Checking the mirror again, I imagined confronting Reg’s mom in this outfit.

  With this face.

  Hm, too young. And too pretty. I added some years and pounds, and the pretty took care of itself. Boy. I could see why Pog and Beth wanted to look like jail bait all the time. I guess if you’ve lived long enough to get some wrinkles, you’re not so impressed with being a grownup.

  There was that word again.

  My insides were fizzing with rage, as usual, but there was an undercurrent of fear in there, making my ears ring.

  They walked out and left me here.

  That hurt so bad, I turned the pain into anger.

  All I could see was Amanda’s face. Do you want me to remove the Cone of Silence from your bedroom?

  Are you through screaming yourself hoarse in your sleep?

  Do you still feel like a little kid crying in your sleep because they won’t let you cry when you’re awake ’cause it messes up your whore makeup?

  I remembered refusing to cry when a customer wanted me to. Other girls learned to do it on command. Sometimes the hurting didn’t stop escalating until you finally did cry.

  Holy shit. The woman in the mirror was shrinking, darkening, and, yes, starting to leak around the eyes.

  I crouched on the floor and covered my head with my fists and willed the tears down, willed away the hurt little kid, dragged my rage out and pumped it up until my heart raced and my ears rang and I was blazing with indignation and fury.

  I stood and checked the mirror. Yes. I was back.

  Then I got in Amanda’s old Fiesta and drove to Reg’s mom’s house.

  Reg’s mom lived in Berwyn in one of those bungalow neighborhoods where the houses look alike in threes and fours—squat, brick, slightly rounded roof, peeling paint on the upstairs window frames, overgrown evergreen bushes in front. I parked down the block. Lights were on. It was suppertime all over the neighborhood. I sniffed. Good lord, these people ate horrible food. I would treat myself to something tasty after I ripped this woman’s throat out. Remembering how she’d beat the soles of Reg’s feet, how he held onto the bedframe with white knuckles and jerked every time the switch came down, the red-hot rage filled me up until I felt calm and powerful.

  I walked up her steps and rang her doorbell. Putting forward my demon-sharp ears, I heard no voices, only heavy footsteps approaching the door. I stood straight and thought of the way Beth had looked when she first arrived at the Lair—middle-aged, faded, flabby, harmless.

  “Who is it?” Reg’s mom said through the door.

  “Mrs. Rupak?” I said, looking down at my clipboard and then at my diamond watch. Damn, I’d forgotten to put on one of Amanda’s boring watches. I shoved her polyester sleeve down quickly. I looked at the door, letting impatience into my face.

  The locks moved. The door opened.

  I smelled Reg in there somewhere.

  And Mrs. Rupak was there. Medium-sized, not big enough to overpower Reg physically. Terrible hair and jowls like a bulldog. Squat and certainly out of shape, with quick, mean, suspicious, pale blue eyes. “What is it?”

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Quonset from Animal Control.” I flashed her a peek at my lapel badge. “We’ve had a report that an animal is being mistreated in your basement.”

  “What? Who said that? I don’t have any animal.” Mrs. Rupak’s glance darted past me.

  I made a checkmark on the clipboard with my gold Cross pen. Oops on the accessory again.

  “Ma’am, may I come in and inspect your basement?”

  She bristled. “Certainly not!” Behind her I could see a dark hallway, a row of coat hooks with an umbrella hanging on one, and beyond, a plush rug with a plastic runner down the center. It smelled in there. Lots of not-good smells—bad cooking, medical ointments, dog shit, old sweat, fear.

  If she stood her ground, I’d have to get tough, and I wasn’t sure what I could get away with.

  “You can refuse me entrance now, ma’am. But you’re not getting out of this by refusing to cooperate. I can go get a search warrant, based on the complaint and your obvious reluctance to let me in. When I come back, I’ll have a warrant and an animal control van, and then it’ll be the whole house searched, not just the basement. If we find any infractions at that time, you could be placed under arrest.”

  Her eyes moved even quicker. “There’s nothing in my basement.” Her voice rose. “You can’t come in here. I’m going out. I can’t talk right now.”

  She reached behind her—for a gun or a baseball bat? I braced myself. But all she had in her hand was her purse.

  “I’m going out now! You can’t come in!” she repeated shrilly. She pushed past me, yanking the front door shut, scrambling the key in the lock.

  I turned on her doorstep and watched her run down the sidewalk to a beat-up Corolla even older than Amanda’s Fiesta. She glared at me over the hood while she fumbled with the key. Then, bang! She was in the car, and zoom! She drove off down the street.

  I turned back to the shut door. “Reg?”

  He was in there. I could smell him. If I worked at it, I could hear his heart beating. Of course, these days, it seemed I could always hear his heart beating. My fucked-up imagination, no doubt.

  I waited.

  He wasn’t going to come to the door.

  I smelled their dinner, some horrible swill, generic box-mix mac’n’cheese with Velveeta and cheap hot dogs. “I’ll feed you. C’mon. Let me take you out to dinner.”

  This was absolutely not the way I was supposed to talk to my houseboy.

  I pressed my lips together on more words, a threat, a plea, an ultimatum. I’d been a whiny little kid for days. Now I felt tired, like somebody’s mom talking through a shut door to her teenager.

  Sort of like Beth talking through the bathroom door to me.

  Abruptly I turned and walked back to my car.

  In spite of his refusal to come away with me, I felt optimistic. I had met Mrs. Rupak and I hadn’t killed her in a fit of rage, and I’d thrown a good scare into her. And, I thought, putting the key in the ignition, I’d given Reg something to think about.

  In theory, Officer Quonset would be back wi
th a warrant.

  So he knows I’ll be back.

  Thinking of how her fist had come down with the bamboo switch, over and over, I promised myself that next time, there would be violence.

  Reg

  I slumped against the wall like a wet noodle.

  I almost went out there when Jee promised to feed me. I’d been getting fat since I come back with Ma, just like the girls did when they din’t eat enough, and tonight’s skimpy little pot of mac’n’cheese wasn’t gonna help.

  Maybe Jee would break down the door!

  But she walked away from the house. I listened until I heard a car start and go away.

  Still, I wanted to dance around. She came for me! She threatened my Ma! My ears was going bong bong bong, like a bell in my chest was banging up into my head.

  She said she’d be back with a search warrant—I din’t see how she could do that, but I felt so good knowing she din’t just give up on me.

  Then I kicked myself for not opening the door. What kinda man was afraid of his Ma?

  This kind, I thought, remembering the tricks Ma could get up to. But could she do any of that to my girls? I din’t see Jee holding still to get beat, although some of the stories she told me about Bangkok—I gritted my teeth. If I let my own Ma beat me until I couldn’t walk, how could I go to Bangkok and kill a bunch of child molesters?

  My feet was working almost perfect, actually. I felt hope for the first time.

  Then I realized I hadn’t been in Ma’s house alone since I come back. I went to the kitchen and cleaned up my share of mac’n’hot dogs in a minute. Then I thought, What did I always want to get into when Ma wasn’t here, and never had the nerve?

  I figured I had an hour, maybe two, if Ma was spooked bad enough.

  I knew exactly where to start. That box in her closet.

  I went for the box. My heart went bomp-a-domp, until I sat down and started reading.

  By the time she got back, I knew a whole lot more about my Ma.

  I asked while she ate her cold mac’n’cheese‘n’dogs. “Ma, who’s Martine Disher?”

  She almost stabbed herself with her fork. “What?”

  “You been collecting her Social Security and a pension for her dead husband for fourteen years. Who is she, Ma?”

  Ma went back to her dinner, not looking at me. “She’s—she was my mother. I’m entitled to my mother’s money,” she grumbled.

  “You can get arrested for that, Ma. Plus, Aid for Dependent Children for twenty-three years? They put people in jail for that.”

  “Not while I have a dependent.” She scraped the last of the mac out of the pot and ate it.

  “Ma, I’m twenty-three.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re eight.”

  I stared at her with my yap open.

  “According to ADC you are.” Ma slid me a mean smile. “I had two sons. First one left when he was twenty-one, but I had the other one by then, so I’m good for another seven years. By then, I’ll have a grandchild.”

  “Wait. Which one am I?”

  “Both of them, stupid. Reg and Reg. Neither one of them is worth the trash bag to hold him. Think I’ll name your kid Reg, too.”

  “I wouldn’t give you my kid,” I blurted.

  “My, my,” she said, looking me over slowly, giving me goosebumps. “We’re getting assertive.”

  I was really hungry. I remembered how Pog always made sure I got plenty to eat, even when I was in the doghouse with Jee. “I’m a person, Ma.”

  Her eyelids went half-down. “I suppose a person wants ice cream for dessert.”

  I swallowed. “Please.”

  “Go wash your face, then.”

  I got up and went.

  When I come back to the kitchen, she put the whole half gallon in front of me with chocolate syrup poured over it. And one great big spoon.

  I looked up at her. This was so not my Ma.

  “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

  I was so hungry, I ate it.

  Twenty minutes later I was falling asleep, so I went downstairs to my room and shut the door. Wasn’t like I could keep her out. I just felt like shutting it.

  Jee

  I drove back to the Lair higher than I’ve ever felt in my whole life. I’d looked that abusive bitch in the eye and scared her—scared her good. She’d better be careful how she treated Reg from now on.

  That might have led to the next three logical thoughts. One, why did Reg let her abuse him? Two, what good was it for me to scare her, if he wouldn’t? Three, why did I want him if he wouldn’t stand up to her? But I was too high to think about all that.

  Instead I was remembering people in Thailand I wished I could have scared like that.

  My nerves jangled like swinging knives. I had taken her on and I’d scared her.

  There wasn’t a soul around the Lair. I remembered why and got mad all over again. Well, this was not a good time for people to piss me off.

  I fixed my face up young and beautiful again. I took off the cop-frumpy duds and put on all the stuff I’d taken off before: the full-on makeup, the diamonds, the man-eater dull-gold dress sprayed on so tight that you could see through it to the stud in my navel, gold shoes that made me basketball-player tall. I slutted my hair up into the danger zone.

  In the long mirror in my bedroom, I looked like a Bebe bus-stop ad. I looked like a supermodel who was about to take a length of chain to her boyfriend’s car. I looked like trouble.

  Then I went out to score.

  After a glance at the news I decided my best bet was McCormick Place. The convention center was hosting a software meeting. It would be as full as a leech with vice presidents from out-of-town. My favorite meat.

  It was five-thirty when I sauntered onto the Expo floor. The uniformed guards took one look at me and decided I didn’t need a show badge. Arm candy like me would be leaving with somebody very, very soon.

  The floor was loaded with guys in unconvincing flannel-shirt-sneakers-jeans geekwear, guys in suits and ties, guys lugging backpacks full of free pens and give-away gimmicks, guys towing sample cases full of product literature. They all looked rumpled, thirsty, sweaty, and horny.

  I reached for my succubus pedal and stepped on the gas.

  Every man in the main aisle stopped and stared at me. I just stood there, lapping it up. My nerves sang. I’d done this many times before, but it had never felt like this. I felt alive. I felt like that girl in the sorority movie, teetering on the edge of a faux volcano full of Mai Tai mix.

  I pulled a plastic card out of my purse and twiddled it. “Can someone tell me where the main hotel is? I totally forgot, and my dumb room key doesn’t say.”

  Ten guys offered to take me there.

  Turned out there was a shuttle bus. That way, I didn’t shake off any of my admirers who couldn’t fit into a cab. Wasn’t that sweet?

  In the hotel bar, I made every one of them buy me two drinks. I made them feed me. I made them give me their business cards. They’d spent the whole day trying to force those cards on strangers at the Expo hall, so by now it was a reflex. Only the sober ones realized they probably shouldn’t give a card to a man-eating hooker. But they didn’t stay sober. I was going to make Amanda look like an amateur this week. Actual names and phone numbers! I was so high, I remembered their names. I laughed. I filled myself up.

  And upstairs in the convention hotel, in a bedroom adjoining a hospitality suite, I scored. Over and over and over.

  An hour and forty-five minutes passed. Men came and came and went, over and over. I had jizz in my hair, jizz on my dress, slobber on my shoes—the software execs seemed to like the fancy shoes. After the first ten guys, I realized that the word must be getting out. One by one, guys whose names I didn’t remember walked in. They left behind cards and genetic material, each fully satisfied, because I had my succubus mojo dialed way up. I could make a guy come by laying my hand on his fly. I could make him come by licking my lips. And it was still the best sex of his lif
e. It was amazing how fast I could cycle them through. My pile of business cards fell over on the floor.

  And because my body was engineered by the Second Circle of the Regional Office, I loved every minute of it.

  Well, actually, after about an hour and a half, I was getting a little bored.

  At some point I noticed that my worshipers’ reverence seemed to have weakened. These new guys hadn’t had to buy me two drinks and a snack first. This may have contributed to their air of entitlement. A couple of them weren’t even drunk. I remembered the first rule of sex demoning that Pog and I had worked out: who I want, when I want, where I want, what I want, and he’d better be grateful I’ve bothered with him.

  The last guy said brusquely, “Jeez, bitch, you’re a mess. Take a shower or something. I ain’t fuckin’ that.”

  I felt my skin shrink with a sizzling chill. My high collapsed. I stared blankly at him for a moment, and realized that my party was over.

  I bent and gathered up the business cards and stuck them in my clutch purse.

  While I had my back to him, he grabbed me around the waist and threw me face-down on the bed.

  Panic struck me. I felt myself go limp, an old childhood defense thing.

  I’d gotten a little too into the evening. I’d been feeling too much. I’d let myself get mentally tired.

  In a floating haze, I reflected on the unwisdom of trolling for scores without my teammates. They’d left me home tonight. Was this why?

  The man behind me thumped against me until he found his way into my ass.

  I just lay there. Somewhere deep inside the fog, my body was doing its dumb succubus orgasm thing, and somewhere inside even that, someone was screaming.

  As he started to come, I wondered where my anger had gone. I moved my head.

  He smacked at my face inaccurately with a fist. “Hold still!”

  Ah. There. There’s my anger.

  I thought about the body modification I wanted to make.

  Then I clenched.

  His groan of pleasure turned into a squeal, a squeak. He tugged and pushed against me, but not for long. I wasn’t letting go. He stopped moving. His hands on my waist loosened and then held... perfectly... still.