Coed Demon Sluts: Jee

A heart-scarred succubus and her battered houseboy embark on a terrifying and tender journey toward wholeness.

Only a few years ago, Jee was a slave in a Bangkok whorehouse. When her teenage rebellion endangered her life, Hell’s recruiter came along with an offer she couldn’t refuse: become a succubus, with an invincible body, a great paycheck, and a loft in Chicago.

Reg answered an ad in Craigslist to become the onsite manager of the coed demon sluts. But the succubi weren’t putting up with a pimp. Jee got him under control right away.

Reg has found bliss in his new home, even if it means eating his dinner from a dog bed in the kitchen. Then his worst enemy recaptures him and drags him back to a darker slavery in her basement…his mom.

Jee’s childhood scars won’t begin to heal until she lets her succubus team under her skin. She thinks she’s too tough for that, until she takes pity on the unlikeliest teammate of all. And Reg will someday be grateful that he can morph into a child-protecting monster.

 

There are some very dark places in the world. Jee and Reg had been slaves. Jee in Indonesia and Cambodia and Reg in Chicago. In this story two broken people find their missing soul. Don’t forget too look out for tigers. Another great story. -Alan Lynn This was not the usual Coed Sluts, this is darker than the others so far and deals with issues everyone might not be comfortable with; that being said I think this is the best book so far! Ms. Stevenson handled dark and secret issues with finesse and care, she told it like it is didn’t try to sensationalize the topic.  Jee and Reg make such a cute couple and deserve their HEA. This book is not for everyone but not as bad as I thought it was going to be, Ms. Stevenson didn’t get too graphic or delve too deep into this subject but she also didn’t shy away from it either. Totally worth the tears, have tissues handy! -Liz, Kindle reader

Reg

Jee’s my succubus. Technically they’re all mine. But who am I kidding? Jee owns me and I love it.

Being their houseboy was not the original plan. I was hired by the Regional Office meaning hell. I’d be their onsite manager, like a pimp only magical and everything. The thing is, I’m not manager material. More of a bat boy. Hur, hur.

Pog is our real team leader. It was her idea to throw me off that balcony my first day, when I din’t know any better and come in acting like I’m the boss. Jee set me straight.

They thought I din’t remember that. I admit, I woke up next morning in my bed back in my ma’s basement thinking it was all a dream—the interview with Ish Qbybbl, our demon supervisor, and him giving me the key and the address, and me going over there, walking in, grabbing Beth by the titty and making remarks, and all them hot babes grabbing me by the arms and legs and whoosh! Felt like I broke both legs and an arm when I landed. I lay there and felt horrible until I passed out. And then I woke up next morning in bed, good as new.

That second morning, I got a FedEx from Ish, fulla cash. I never seen so much money in my life before. I spent it all on clothes, so my Ma couldn’t get it away from me. Then I come back over here.

Best thing ever happened to me.

Remembering how I talked that first morning, and knowing the girls like I know them now, I’m not surprised they throwed me off a balcony. No wonder Jee took a firm line with me when I come back next day. I’m just grateful she din’t punch me in the throat. Because I woulda missed all this.

We live in the Lair of the Succubi, which is this old factory space on Ravenswood Avenue on the north side. (Who knew I would ever live on the north side? White Sox forever, no matter where I live!) We get our own rooms and our own fridge and a fancy massage chair and our own video game monitor and all the beer we can drink, and the food! Holy cow, the food. And they treat me nice.

And Jee. She makes everything worthwhile. She even gave me my very own dog bed in the kitchen, so I can be in the middle of things.

It’s been so great. But I come outa some bad stuff. So I wasn’t surprised when I found out it was going sour.

Seems like everything started to fall apart when I went back to my ma’s place to get some stuff from the basement. Jee said I could go. That’s how I missed the start.

This morning I come home early from my ma’s to the Lair. I stood by while Jee took her shower, to give her her shampoo and things. She din’t wanna you-know. She din’t even want me to scrub her back.

Instead she sent me to the kitchen to help out with breakfast. Lately Pog lets me do that.

So here I was cooking. But I knew I hadda help Jee.

“She’s upset,” I blurted when I come into the kitchen.

Pog was already in there drinking expresso. She pointed at the machine.

“I’m worried about her.” I started wiping it down and getting the next shot ready for her. “Something’s wrong. What am I doing wrong?” It come out like a wail.

“It’s probably not you, Reg,” Pog said. “There’s a lot you don’t know about Jee.”

My stomach was churned up. I wanted to be in there, helping Jee dress.

Pog watched me make her another shot and pour it into a fresh cup and wash out her old cup. “It’s not you,” she said again. Pog don’t like to talk much in the morning.

The kitchen looked good. Pog keeps a tight ship. I went to my dog bed in the corner and waited for orders.

The kitchen is a long, wide concrete room in the middle of the second floor of an old factory that the sluts took over. Technically some incuboys halfway remodeled it before we got the place, only they left, and our team moved in. The porn posters high up on the walls, the six video game screens, the six big side-by-side refrigerator-freezers, the margaritaville machines, alla that stuff was theirs. Also the cappuccino machine. I want to buy another one. Pog says no, this one works. Since I clean it, she don’t care that it’s kinda old.

I listened for sounds from Jee’s room, which is right next to the bathroom, which is right across the hall from the kitchen. It can take her forty-five minutes to put on her makeup.

No noise was good noise, I guessed.

I guess Pog was thinking about that too. She sighed and got up and went to her fridge. We all got one, even me. She pulled out four dozen eggs, a gallon of half an half, a half gallon of whipping cream, two pounds of butter, two half gallons of orange juice, one high-pulp one no-pulp, and five bottles of champagne. She put all that on the counter and pointed. “Get to work.”

Mimosas and waffles, my favorite!

I’m Pog’s sous chef. She may be a sex demon but she cooks like an angel for the five of us, Jee, me, Pog, Beth, and Amanda. We gotta eat a lot or else we get fat. I never ate like this before in my life. They feed me same as everybody. I love it here.

I got a big bowl out and put the eggs in and started warming them in warm water. Then I warmed the half an half a cup at a time in the nuke and tested it on my wrist like Pog taught me. Then I pulled out the four waffle irons and plugged them in, and started the oven up to warm. Meanwhile Pog opened champagne and got her first mimosa going. I put the rest of the bottles on ice.

The kitchen filled up with the smell of hot iron and melted butter. My stomach started growling like a Rottweiler.

While I set the table, I listened for sounds coming from the bedroom next door to the bathroom. Not a peep. I hoped Jee got some sleep last night. I hoped she maybe went back to sleep now, after her shower. Probably not. Usually not. I wanted to go help her with her makeup.

“I’m ready for those eggs in two minutes,” Pog warned. She started measuring flour and sugar and baking powder and corn meal. I stopped setting the table for four and started cracking and beating eggs—with a whisk, like she taught me, not some old rotary egg beater. That’s for amateurs. She pointed at the butter and I throwed a couple sticks into a cup and nuked them. Then I put a fresh pound on the butter dish and nuked it just a hair for to get it soft. Jee likes a lot of butter on her waffles.

Pretty soon the batter was ready and the first batch was on the waffle irons. I stood by with a long fork to take them out and pop them in the oven so’s they’d stay warm.

My stomach was growling hard.

The first four waffles went ding. I flipped open the irons. Pog grabbed two with her fingers and started chowing. Then she pointed at the other two. “Eat.”

Pog takes pretty good care of me, too.

“Thank you, mistress,” I said, and I stuffed a whole one into my mouth. My stomach was growling that loud.

The shower started running again. Probably Beth. She gets up early. Amanda goes last. I think she puts herself last. Pog wouldn’t shower until breakfast was over, but that’s a’cause she’s fussy and don’t like what all that steam does to her makeup. Plus she’s a messy eater. We all are. We get so hungry.

There was maybe two gallons of waffle batter in the bowl. We made waffles like maniacs for twenty minutes. Then we started eating them off the irons again.

I waited for Pog to tell me what went wrong last night for Jee. Please tell me.

She din’t say nothing.

But sure enough Beth come in looking like a cheerleader wearing her mom’s clothes. She’s a blonde like Pog and Amanda, but she likes to keep her body shorter, maybe only five-nine. “Where were you last night, Reg?”

She started whipping cream. I’d do it, only Pog says it’s Beth’s job. I think Pog only says that to keep Beth from driving her crazy in the kitchen. Beth was a homemaker in some fancy suburb before she signed on. Her husband dumped her for the babysitter. She ain’t got over being somebody’s cook and bottlewasher yet. Only way Pog can keep her from trying to take over the kitchen is give her special jobs.

“Sweartagod, mistress, Jee let me go home and get things outa my room at my ma’s house. I shoulda come back right away,” I said, mad at myself. “What happened?” Beth would tell me.

“I woke up standing in the hall in my PJs,” Beth said. “I must have thought one of the kids was having a night terror.”

“Your kids have been grown up and out of the house for eight years,” Pog said.

“I can’t help it,” Beth said. “It’s hard-wired into you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Pog said shortly.

“Blueberries, mistress?” I said, to keep the peace. I wanted to ask, what’s a night terror?

Beth said blueberries and Pog said strawberries. I put out the blueberries and took some strawberries outa Pog’s fridge and started washing and hulling. Beth clucked at me and took that over. I went back to prepping eggs and measuring melted butter for Pog.

Amanda come in next, after she had her whack at the shower. She don’t dress up at all. She looks like one a those semi-pro Chicago girl softball players, big and rangy and curvy—a glamazon. I set her up with a triple-shot low-foam salted caramel latte, pronto.

“Did you hear Jee screaming last night?” Beth asked her.

Screaming? My stomach went ugh.

“Want me to slice those strawberries, mistress?” I said to Pog.

Amanda din’t say nothing. She hardly ever does.

Night terrors and screaming. It was all my fault, for going to my Ma’s. I shoulda been here.

I waited for Jee to call for me to come fix up her shoes—she got about fifty pairs—but she din’t. My heart sunk lower.

Pog piled waffles on a paper plate and put them on the floor by my dog bed. I looked at ’em. My stomach was growling a whole lot so I bet everybody could hear it. Then I looked at the door.

“Maybe you’d better go see if she needs anything,” Beth said kindly.

I coulda kissed her.

I went and scritched on Jee’s door.

“I didn’t call you,” Jee says from inside. She din’t sound so happy.

I waited.

In a minute she says, “I can hear you breathing out there.” She probably could. She’s a succubus. She can hear a hard-on on a guy at fifty paces.

I din’t say nothing.

After forever she said, “Go eat.”

Miserable, I drug myself back to the kitchen and ate my waffles.

When she finally sailed into the kitchen, looking like Miss Indomalapalesia of 2017, all brown and perfect and stormy-looking, I’m done eating and I was making more cappuccino for the girls.

She din’t even look at me.

I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

I decided that when my chores was over, I was gonna look up this “night terrors” thing.