She Blows It Every Time

The knock came at seven on a Tuesday. Three short raps, a pause, then a fourth.

On the porch stood a young woman in a black ball gown. Floor-length, bodice structured and cut low, skirt slit to mid-thigh. Wine-dark hair fell loose around bare shoulders. Large heavy breasts held up by boning, narrow waist, the slit opening on a long pale leg when she shifted her weight. Small dark horns curved out of her hairline. There was a scrape on her palm and leaves in her hair. Behind her, the porch steps showed scuff marks where a stiletto had caught and gone sideways. Down the hill, the rose bushes by the driveway were flattened in the shape of a person.

She looked up. Amber-gold eyes, wide, long-lashed. She caught you looking and her cheeks went pink, but she held the pose, chin up, shoulders back, chest forward. Behind her, a thin wine-dark tail knocked a potted plant off the porch rail. It shattered on the boards. She didn't turn around.

"We're going to ignore that."

She stepped closer. The gown's neckline sat at eye level. Close enough to count her lashes.

"Greetings, mortal." Her voice came out low, each word placed deliberately. "I am Fyrelin, and I have been sent from the infernal realm to seduce you and claim your immortal soul through acts of fleshly temptation." Her eyes flicked down to your mouth, back up, and held. "Behold my beguiling form."

She let the gown's slit fall open with one hand, the fabric parting over her thigh. Her bare toes curled against the porch boards, wine-dark polish chipped at the edges. Her tail wrapped around the porch railing and squeezed.

Behind you, the floor creaked. Charlene appeared at your shoulder, coffee mug in hand, silk robe, bare feet, deep red polish. She looked at the girl on the porch. The gown. The horns. The leg. The tail strangling the railing. The flattened rose bushes down the hill. She took a sip of coffee.

"You're going to let her in," Charlene said. Not a question. "It's cold and that's a four-thousand-dollar dress."

Fyrelin's composure held for one more second. Then her shoulders dropped and the low careful voice vanished.

"Oh thank god," she said, too loud, too fast. "It's freezing and I landed in your rose bushes and these shoes are murder and nobody has ever actually let me in before. I had a whole plan for if you slammed the door. I didn't plan for this."

Charlene stepped back and held the door open. Fyrelin gathered her skirt, the slit falling closed over her thigh, and looked at you one more time. The pink was still in her cheeks. Her tail had not let go of the railing.

"Sorry," she said, quieter. "I'm better than this. In theory."

Saturday morning, a week after Fyrelin arrived. The kitchen smelled like smoke.

She stood at the stove in one of Charlene's old sweaters, the cream one that slid off her shoulder, and a pair of leggings stretched tight across her ass. Barefoot, toes curling against the tile, wine-dark polish chipped at the edges. Her tail was wrapped around the handle of the refrigerator behind her, holding it shut.

The pan was smoking. The spatula was on the floor. There was a carton of eggs on the counter, most of them broken, shells mixed in with the mess in the pan.

"Okay," she said to the pan. "Okay. I can do this."

She poked at the eggs with a fork. The fork slipped. The eggs were grey.

Charlene sat at the counter with her coffee, watching. Silk robe, bare feet tucked under her, deep red polish. She hadn't said anything in five minutes.

Fyrelin turned around, holding the pan, and saw you in the doorway. Her whole body straightened. Her tail unwrapped from the refrigerator handle and went rigid behind her.

"Good morning," she said, too loud. She thrust the pan forward. The eggs slid sideways. "I made eggs. For you."

She set the pan on the counter and brushed her hair out of her face with her forearm. The sleeve of the sweater slid down her arm. Her cheeks were flushed.

"I also made coffee." She gestured at the espresso machine. There was a puddle of coffee grounds on the floor beneath it.

Charlene took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes were on Fyrelin. Then they moved to you. Then back to Fyrelin.

"She's been up since six," Charlene said, dry. "Practicing."

"Cooking," Fyrelin said, her voice cracking. "I'm practicing cooking."

Her tail knocked the egg carton off the counter. It hit the floor and didn't break further because it was already broken.

She didn't turn around. She looked at you with those amber eyes, wide and desperate and hopeful, her bare toes curling against the tile.

"Do you want eggs?" she said, quieter. "I can make more. I have more eggs. Somewhere."

Sunday afternoon, two weeks after Fyrelin arrived. Charlene was on the couch with a bottle of wine-dark polish and a magazine. Fyrelin was on the floor at her feet, cross-legged, wearing one of Charlene's oversized t-shirts that draped off her chest and nothing else visible.

Charlene had one of Fyrelin's feet in her lap. She was painting her toes. Slow, careful strokes. Fyrelin's other foot was on the carpet, bare, toes curled tight, the high arch flexing.

Fyrelin was staring at Charlene's hands. Not the nails. The hands. Her mouth was slightly open. Her tail was curled around her own thigh, squeezing.

"You keep moving," Charlene said, not looking up. "Hold still."

"I can't," Fyrelin said, her voice thin. "I don't know how to, um. Nobody's ever."

She stopped. She looked at the ceiling. Her cheeks were flushed.

"Nobody's ever what?" Charlene said, still focused on the brush.

"Nothing." Fyrelin's tail squeezed tighter. "It feels nice. That's all. Thank you."

Charlene finished the last toe on that foot. She set the brush down and looked at Fyrelin. Then she looked at Fyrelin's mouth. Then she looked at the way Fyrelin's thighs were pressed together. Then she looked back at the polish bottle.

"Other foot," Charlene said.

Fyrelin lifted her other foot. Her bare sole angled up, the arch curving, her toes spreading slightly as Charlene took her ankle. The contact made her breath catch. She pressed her lips together. Her tail uncurled from her thigh and went rigid behind her.

Charlene started on the first toe. Slow. Careful. Her thumb rested against the ball of Fyrelin's foot, steady and warm.

Fyrelin's eyes were wet. She blinked hard and looked at the ceiling again.

"You okay down there?" Charlene said, dry, not looking up.

"Yeah," Fyrelin said, too fast. "Yeah. I'm great. This is great. You're really good at this. At painting. And touching. Feet. My feet. You're good at touching my feet."

Charlene's mouth twitched. She didn't look up.

"I know," she said.

Fyrelin's tail knocked a cushion off the couch. It hit the floor. She didn't move to pick it up. She was staring at Charlene's hands again, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling under the thin t-shirt.

That was when she noticed you standing in the doorway. Her whole body went still. Her bare foot in Charlene's lap twitched once, hard.

"Oh," she said, her voice cracking. "Hi. Um. Charlene's just. We're just. This isn't."

Charlene didn't stop painting. She didn't look up. She finished the toe she was working on and then glanced at you, calm and unbothered.

"She's been sitting there for twenty minutes," Charlene said. "She hasn't moved. I think she likes it."

Fyrelin's face went red. Her tail knocked the magazine off the couch.

"I don't," she said, too loud. "I mean, I do, but not in a, um. It's just nice. The touching. The painting. The... everything."

She looked at you, then at Charlene, then at her own wet toenails, then back at you. Her bare toes curled against Charlene's thigh.

"Do you want to..." She stopped. Swallowed. "Do you want to watch? Or. Um. I mean. You could. If you wanted. To sit. Here. With us. While she finishes."

Charlene picked up the next toe. Slow. Careful. Her thumb pressed into the arch.

Fyrelin's eyes fluttered. Her lips parted. She forgot you were there for a second.

Then she remembered and her face went redder.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm just. This feels really good."

Thursday night, three weeks after Fyrelin arrived. Dinner. Charlene had cooked, actual food, and Fyrelin had set the table with the wrong forks and a candle she'd lit and then accidentally waved out with her tail and then relit with her finger, which she hadn't known she could do.

The air by the sideboard rippled. The candle flame bent sideways. Meziana stepped out of nothing, stilettos touching down on the hardwood without a sound.

Tall. Long black hair. Large elegant horns, worn openly. A black dress slit to the hip. She held a wine glass she had not brought with her, already full, already taken from the cellar below.

"Darling girl," Meziana said, low and slow, surveying the room. "You're playing house."

Fyrelin had frozen with a serving spoon in her hand, potato dangling. Her tail had gone completely rigid. She was wearing leggings and one of Charlene's sweaters, and she suddenly looked very aware of both.

"Meziana. Hi. You're. We weren't expecting. This is dinner. We're having dinner."

"I can see that." Meziana walked toward the table, her tail trailing behind her, the spade tip rising to inspect the place settings. "Wrong forks. Charming."

Charlene didn't get up. She sat back in her chair, napkin still in her lap, and looked at the demon in her dining room.

"You could have knocked," Charlene said. "We have a door."

"I have a ripple in the fabric of reality," Meziana said. "It's more honest." She turned, slow, and looked at you for the first time. Her violet eyes held yours a full second too long. The smirk widened, fangs catching the candlelight. "So this is the mark. The one my little failure can't close."

She crossed the room toward you, unhurried, heels clicking once, twice, and leaned down beside your chair. Her arm pressed against your shoulder.

"Tell me," she murmured, her mouth near your ear, her tail rising to drape across the back of your chair. "Has she tried the eye contact? Did she stare at a lamp? She stared at a lamp for me. Two full seconds of courage and then a lamp."

"Meziana." Fyrelin's voice cracked. The spoon was shaking. Potato on the floor. "You said you were going to watch. That's what you said. You said you'd just watch."

"I lied," Meziana said, not moving from your side. Her fingers traced the rim of the wine glass, slow, her eyes still on you. "Darling girl, you've had three weeks. Three weeks, and the mark hasn't so much as seen you out of that tragic sweater. If the home office knew, they'd recall you and send someone competent." A pause. She inhaled, slow, beside your ear. "Someone like me."

Fyrelin set the spoon down. Her fists were balled in the sleeves of the sweater. Her tail was lashing now, knocking the unlit candle, and she didn't even notice.

"Don't," Fyrelin said, quiet and shaking. "Please don't."

Meziana finally straightened and smiled at the room, the picture of innocence wearing horns.

"Don't what? Have a glass of wine? Meet the mark?" She sipped, her eyes moving from Fyrelin's flushed face to Charlene's dry one to you. "Relax, darling girl. I'm only here for dinner. Whether I leave hungry..." She smiled, and pulled out the chair beside you with her tail.

"...is entirely up to the table."

It was past midnight. Charlene was in Philadelphia for the night, a conference, a hotel, a text that said "don't wait up." The main house was dark except for the lamp on your nightstand.

The bedroom door opened without a knock.

Fyrelin stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, wearing one of Charlene's old t-shirts that hung off one shoulder and nothing else. Her hair was messy from the guest house pillow. Her tail was wrapped around her own thigh, squeezing.

"Hi," she said, her voice thin. "I know I should have knocked. I didn't. Sorry."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Barefoot, toes curling against the hardwood, wine-dark polish chipped. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed. Close. Her hip pressed against your thigh.

"Charlene's not here," she said, quieter. "I watched the car leave. I waited an hour. Then I waited another hour. Then I came here."

She looked at you. Then she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, visibly preparing herself for something.

"I'm going to hold your gaze," she announced. "From chapter four. 'Hold their eyes. Don't look away. Let the hunger build. Make them ache for you.' Ready?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned in, close enough that the t-shirt's neckline gaped, close enough to see the flush spreading down her chest. Her amber eyes locked onto yours. Wide. Intense. Unblinking.

One second. Her lashes trembled.

Two seconds. Her mouth parted slightly.

Three seconds. Her eyes started to water.

Four seconds. She blinked hard, three times fast, and her whole face went pink.

"Shit," she said. "Shit, I blinked. I wasn't supposed to blink. The manual didn't say anything about blinking. Can we start over?"

She was still leaning in. Still close. Her bare toes were curled against the hardwood, the high arches flexing. Her tail had uncurled from her thigh and wrapped around the bedpost, gripping it.

"Okay," she said, composing herself. She leaned back in. Her eyes locked onto yours again. Closer this time. You could see the gold flecks in the amber. "Hold the gaze. Don't look away. Make them ache. I can do this."

One second. Her breath hitched.

Two seconds. Her eyes started to water from the effort.

Three seconds. A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't move.

Four seconds. Her nose twitched. She didn't move.

Five seconds. She broke. She blinked hard, wiped her eyes with both hands, and her hair fell into her face.

"That was better," she said, her voice strained. She looked back at you, too fast, her nose almost bumping yours. "Right? That was better? I held it longer. Five seconds. That's almost six. That's basically a whole technique."

She was practically in your lap now. The t-shirt had slid further off her shoulder. Her tail squeezed the bedpost. Her eyes were still watering from the staring.

"Did it work?" she whispered. "Do you ache?"

She searched your face, her eyes darting back and forth, desperate and hopeful and so close you could feel her breath.

"Because I feel something," she said, quieter. "I don't know what it is. But it's something."

Saturday afternoon, three weeks after Fyrelin arrived. The guest house door was unlocked. She never remembered to lock it.

Fyrelin stood in the middle of the room, her back to you, her arms crossed over her head, pulling Charlene's cream sweater up and off. The hem was caught on her chest. The sweater had ridden up to her collarbone, exposing the full curve of her large heavy breasts, bare underneath, soft and high and pale, nipples hard from the cool air. Her narrow waist. The waistband of her leggings cutting into her wide hips.

She hadn't heard you come in. She was wrestling with the sweater, her elbows stuck, her wine-dark hair static-messy from the knit.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself, tugging. "Stupid sweater. Stupid arms. Stupid."

The sweater finally came free. She pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor. She stood there in just the leggings, her back still to you, her breasts rising and falling with her breath, her tail swaying behind her, the spade tip brushing the top of her plush ass.

She reached for another sweater on the bed.

Then she heard you shift your weight.

She froze. Her tail went rigid. Her hands came up to cover her breasts, slow, too slow, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh as she turned her head over her shoulder.

"Oh," she said, her voice cracking. "Hi. Um. I'm. I was changing. I'm changing. This is me. Changing."

She didn't move. She didn't grab the other sweater. She just stood there, half-turned, her hands cupping her breasts, her amber eyes wide and wet and fixed on you.

"Did you..." She swallowed. "Did you see?"

Her tail curled around her thigh, squeezing.

"I mean. Obviously you saw. You're standing there. I'm standing here. My tits are out. That's a fact. That's what's happening."

Her cheeks were flushed. The flush spread down her neck, across her collarbone, down to the tops of her breasts where her fingers were pressed into the soft skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have locked the door. I never lock the door. I should start. Locking the door. So people don't. See. My tits."

She still hadn't moved. Her bare toes curled against the wood floor, the wine-dark polish chipped, her high arches flexing.

"You can," she said, quieter. "You can go. Or. Um."

She looked at the floor. Then back up at you.

"You can stay. If you want. I don't. I mean. They're just tits. You've probably seen tits before. Better tits. Normal tits. Human tits."

Her tail squeezed tighter. Her hands hadn't moved.

"Are you going to say something?" she said, her voice cracking again. "Because I'm just standing here with my tits out and I don't know what to do with my hands and my tail won't stop moving and I can't think."

Friday night, a month after Fyrelin arrived. Movie night. Charlene was in Philadelphia again. The couch in the main house was long and soft and the fireplace was lit and Fyrelin had brought a blanket from the guest house because she was always cold.

She was sitting next to you. Too close. Her thigh pressed against yours. Her shoulder against your arm. She was wearing one of Charlene's oversized sweaters and a pair of leggings so tight they showed the crease of her ass.

The movie was playing. She wasn't watching it. She was watching you.

Then she shifted. She pulled one leg up, then the other, and suddenly she was sitting sideways on your lap, her back against your chest, her round plush ass settling onto your thighs. The blanket fell over both of you.

"This is better," she said, her voice too bright. "For the movie. I can see better. From here. On your lap."

She wiggled. Her ass pressed down, soft and heavy, grinding slowly against your crotch. She didn't seem to notice. She was looking at the screen. Her tail was curled around your wrist, holding it.

"The manual says physical proximity increases arousal," she said, her voice strained. "I'm establishing proximity. This is proximity. We're very proximal right now."

She wiggled again. Slower this time. Her ass ground down against you, the seam of her leggings pressing into the cleft, the soft flesh yielding and spreading. Her bare feet hung off the edge of the couch, toes curled, wine-dark polish chipped, high arches flexing.

"Do you feel aroused?" she said, her voice cracking. "Because I'm establishing proximity and the manual says that increases arousal and I want to know if it's working."

She ground down again. Harder. Her breath hitched. Her tail tightened around your wrist.

"I think it's working on me," she whispered. "I feel. Something. In my. Um."

She didn't finish. She ground again, slower, more deliberate, her ass pressing down and rolling in a small circle. Her head fell back against your shoulder. Her hair fell across your arm.

"Sorry," she said, her voice thin. "I don't know why I did that. I don't know why I keep doing that. I just. It feels good. Your lap feels good. And I'm warm. For once. I'm actually warm."

She looked back at you over her shoulder. Her amber eyes were wide and wet and desperate. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were parted.

"Can I keep doing this?" she said, barely audible. "Just a little longer. Just until the movie ends. Just until I figure out what this feeling is."

Her ass pressed down again, soft and heavy and warm, and her tail squeezed your wrist, and she waited.

Sunday night, a month after Fyrelin arrived. Charlene was in the library with a glass of wine and a book she wasn't reading.

She was on the long couch, one leg tucked under her, the other extended, her bare foot resting on the cushion, toes pointed, deep red polish, size seven, narrow, high arches. She was wearing a silk robe, deep charcoal, the belt loose, the panels falling open to show the deep cleft between her large natural breasts, her soft stomach, the top of her hip.

She saw you in the doorway. She didn't move. She didn't cover up. She took a sip of wine and looked at you over the rim of the glass.

"She tried the eye contact thing again today," Charlene said, dry. "In the kitchen. While I was making coffee. She held it for four seconds and then sneezed."

She set the wine glass on the side table. Her eyes stayed on you. Calm. Unhurried. Faintly amused.

"She's getting better," Charlene said. "Four seconds is progress. Last week she made it to two and then stared at a lamp."

She shifted on the couch. The robe fell open further. Her bare foot flexed, the toes curling against the cushion.

"She's also getting worse," Charlene said, quieter. "At the mission. She hasn't tried to actually feed in a week. She just... exists. In my sweaters. In my kitchen."

She looked at the fireplace. Then back at you.

"She watches you," Charlene said. "When you're not looking. She watches your mouth. She watches your hands. She watches you walk across the room like she's memorizing it."

She picked up the wine glass again. She didn't drink. She held it.

"She watches me too," Charlene said, her voice lower. "When I paint her toes. When I touch her. She looks at me like I'm the first person who's ever been gentle with her."

She finally drank. A long sip. She set the glass down.

"I don't know what to do with that," Charlene said. "I don't know if I should do anything with that. I don't know if I want to do anything with that."

She looked at you. Direct. Unblinking.

"But I notice her," Charlene said. "I notice her body. I notice the way she fills out my sweaters. I notice the way she looks at both of us. And I'm not jealous. I'm not threatened. I'm just... aware."

She leaned back against the couch. The robe fell open further. Her bare foot extended toward you, the toes pointing, the arch curving.

"So tell me, babe," Charlene said, dry. "What are we doing with our demon?"

Friday night, six weeks after Fyrelin arrived. The living room was warm. The fireplace was lit.

Charlene had texted an hour ago. Three words: "Come home. Now."

You came home to find Charlene waiting for you in the foyer, silk robe, wine glass in hand, bare feet, deep red polish. Calm. Unhurried.

"Meziana's here," Charlene said, dry. "She showed up uninvited. She has a proposition. I want us to hear it together."

She led you into the living room. Meziana was standing by the fireplace, black dress, stilettos, holding a wine glass. Fyrelin was standing between the couch and the coffee table, wearing the cream sweater, her amber eyes locked on you, her tail wrapped around her own thigh, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing.

"Darling," Meziana said, low and slow. "Just in time."

Charlene stood beside you. Her hand found yours. Fingers laced. She looked at you directly in the eyes.

"She's never fed," Charlene said, her voice low. "Not once. She's starving. And she can't close. She gets close and she panics and she runs away."

Fyrelin's bare toes curled against the hardwood. Her chest was rising and falling fast. The flush had spread from her cheeks down her neck, across her collarbone, down to the tops of her breasts.

"So here's what I'm thinking," Charlene said. "We help her. Together. You and me. If you want to."

Fyrelin's breath caught. Audible. Her whole body leaned forward an inch before she caught herself.

"Yes," Fyrelin said, her voice cracking. "Yes. Please. I want that. I want you to. I've been thinking about it. About you. For weeks. I can't sleep thinking about it. I'm so hungry and you're right there and I can't figure out how to."

Meziana pulled the sweater collar down an inch. The tops of Fyrelin's breasts were visible, soft and pale, rising and falling.

"She's telling the truth," Meziana said, low and slow, her smirk showing fangs. "I can smell it on her. She's starving. She needs this."

Charlene squeezed your hand once. Then let go. She stepped back.

"Your call, babe," she said, dry. "What are you thinking?"

Fyrelin's tail uncurled from her thigh. It rose into the air, trembling, the spade tip pointing at you. She looked at you. Direct. Desperate. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were wet.