On the off chance you don't know what I mean by either Phil or Succubus Summoning, it's a serial about a hapless student warlock who gets into various life-threatening messes after summoning some sexy succubi. The first volume of his sexy misadventures can be found in this lovely ebook, or you can read them in their slightly rougher form here on Literotica. A couple of years ago I hit a brick wall and the story stalled. Now I think it's time to finish the Succubus Summoning 201 arc off so I can put out a lovely ebook sequel and hopefully make enough money to write even more sexy succubus stories for you all.
Without further ado, here's the first 1K words of Succubus Summoning 212:
Succubus Summoning 212, part 1
Darvill had never been afraid of exams. In fact, during his schooldays, before he'd learned of this parallel world of magic and daemons, he'd even grown to relish them. Exams cut through all the bullshit. Exams were remorseless pieces of paper. Exams didn't care about who you were, who your daddy was, or who your friends were. They didn't give a shit about your station. They didn't give a fuck about what your little clique said and thought.
Darvill liked exams because he had control over the outcome. Ultimately that was what it was about—control. He couldn't control who his parents were. He couldn't control where he came from. But exams, he could control them. Knowledge, preparation, hard work—those were things he could control and exams respected them. Exams showed, unequivocally, where everyone stood in relation to everyone else. They took a group of people and churned them out as a ranked list.
And Darvill always made sure his name was at the top of that list.
Wargsnouts College was no different. Sure, the stakes were higher. No-one got their limbs ripped off and devoured for getting a math question wrong in the mundane world, but the principles were still the same—knowledge, preparation, hard work.
So when Darvill had found out about The Scrote's little surprise test he hadn't been fazed in the slightest. Truth be told, he relished it. The last few days had not gone well.
No, that was a massive understatement. The last few days had been fucking disastrous. So much for those plans of building a cabal to shake up the old order. He'd been arrogant and naïve, in a world that laughed at arrogance and destroyed the naïve.
At least it wasn't all for naught. He'd learn from this, had learned much already. He ruffled Calli-Scitu-Oc's eyestalks as the poly-Oc sat on his shoulder.
But the cost...
He grimaced at the thought. Dever, the others, gone. His friends—dead or worse.
No, he mustn't dwell on that. Control the things he could control. Knowledge, preparation, hard work.
Not everyone shared Darvill's phlegmatic attitude when it came to exams. Outside the test room he saw Rowling sitting at one of the tables with an untidy sprawl of notes and papers spread out in front of him. One of his succubi—Verdé, the one with the green hair—was sitting next to him and watching with a look of amusement on her face while he frantically shuffled through his notes.
One of Rowling's succubi...
Everyone thought Rowling had somehow managed to contract a pair of succubi. Darvill knew differently. He'd counted five in the castle in hell. They weren't your regular succubi either. Darvill had done a little research on his return to the college. He wondered if Rowling knew what he'd contracted. He wondered if anyone knew.
Verdé glanced up at Darvill with bright green eyes. She was stunningly beautiful, but so were plenty of other women. And once you had plenty of power behind you, you could screw all the beautiful women you could possibly want... and not worry about them sucking your soul out in the process.
"Last minute revision?" Darvill asked.
Rowling noticed Darvill and seemed both surprised and a little awkward when the other student sat down opposite him. Rowling was the sort that would feel guilty over what had happened, Darvill thought, not that he should.
If Darvill was a lesser person he supposed he could have held Rowling responsible for the deaths of the others, maybe even let a grudge fester while he secretly plotted revenge. Not that Darvill had the slightest intention of doing this. Wargsnouts was dangerous enough as it was without getting himself bogged down in senseless, petty feuds on top. They all knew what had happened to Emma Brennan.
"I wish I knew what this test was about," Rowling said. "I heard something about attunement, but that could cover anything we've studied in the last year and a half."
Darvill thought about Rowling. They had a lot in common. Rowling was outreach, like him. He'd come from a very ordinary background. He had talent. Darvill's original plan of a brand new cabal was in tatters and likely never to be mended, but the recent events had given him a fresh appreciation of just how dangerous this world was. Allies would be useful.
"We're on the fast track because we contracted our first daemons earlier than most other students. I imagine The Scrote wants to check we understand what those contracts mean."
Rowling looked sourly at his notes. "I was kinda hoping we'd be taught this before they tested us on it."
"Daemonic contracts are the test," Darvill said. "Look at the ones that came through."
He motioned over to a passing group of staff. As would be expected for a college like Wargsnouts, the staff were an eclectic bunch. High Magus R. L. Conley, the Magister of the Esoteric Conduit stood out the most with a flamboyant costume of black robes with silver trim and elaborate puffs at the wrists. No-one dressed quite like the high magus. Rumour was he'd been consulted by a horror filmmaker for input on the costume of their satanic high priest villain, and they'd ended up rejecting his ideas for being too extravagant. A masked nihmiratt rode on his shoulders like a small child. Its green eyes shone behind its mask of human skin.
At the opposite end of the spectrum was the Cartifax of Hell-Dimensional Topology, Brion Jacks. The trim, bald-headed man was dressed in a white vest and jogging bottoms. He looked like he'd just stepped out of the gym rather than a lecture on the geography of hell. A pyramid of flesh with a mouth in the centre—a minor nebrit—sat on his shoulder and gnashed its teeth together.
Walking with them was the treasury officer, Graeme Kennet. Kennet would have looked like a paunchy, middle-aged banker if it wasn't for the kappa-Oc perched on his head like a hat. It made the official look like an elderly punk rocker with long purple eyestalks for hair.
In such august company it would have been easy to overlook the fourth member entirely. Dr Will Pryce, the Zoomancer of the Cryptic Savagerium, was small, soft-spoken and innocuous. A ferocious-looking snikkersnakt prowled around his ankles.
Darvill could see Rowling didn't get it. For someone supposedly that smart, Rowling could be incredibly dim sometimes. Darvill was about to give him a helpful nudge when Calli-Scitu-Oc gave him a warning pinch on the shoulder.
Yes, yes, rules and all that, Darvill thought. Each must walk their own path.
Conscious he was not understanding something, Rowling went back to poring over his notes.
Darvill turned and spoke to Verdé directly. "Do you think he has anything to worry about?" he asked.
Verdé contemplated his question. "It's not his strongest area."
Her answer sent Rowling into another frenzy of note shuffling.
The door to the test room opened and one of The Scrote's succubi called out Darvill's name.
"Looks like it's my turn," Darvill said. "See you later."
Darvill left Rowling to his frantic—and unnecessary—last-minute revision and walked over and followed the succubus into the test room. He was expecting to see The Scrote, or maybe even Dodgy Lutwidge if The Scrote couldn't be assed to give the test himself. Neither was waiting for him in the room. Instead it was two more of The Scrote's succubi.
"We're here to give you your test," one said.