Succubus domesticity...
So you meet this girl, hit it off, become fast friends. She's quiet at first but quick to open up, majoring in this or that but taking a break right now, doesn't talk about family much so you figure you shouldn't pry. One night you're hanging out and she makes a move and she's cute and you're up for something casual so, why the hell not? And then you have sex, and it's good.
The next day, you wake up half-dead. Body too tired to lift a finger, eyes struggling to focus, head full of fog and cotton balls. You try to tell her something's wrong and it takes three tries for the words to come out.
And she's the picture of sympathy, says you must've come down with something, says she can't leave you alone like that. She fetches you ibuprofen and glasses of water. She offers to cancel your appointments when you say making a call feels impossible right now (how does your phone unlock? like that? thank you so much). She makes you food, urges you to rest, takes some books to a chair by the bed, even reads out loud to you when you express you're feeling a little bored. She has a nice voice.
And then at night she rapes you.
You're in no shape to resist, of course. Your body's in such a bad way that simply begging her to stop takes enormous effort, and she doesn't even acknowledge it. Just uses you over and over, looking like something out of a nightmare in the half-darkness of the room. When you finally pass out, it's a blessing.
And you wake up the next morning feeling drained, and she's there, just as sweet and caring as yesterday, and for a while you wonder if it might've all been a fever dream, but at nightfall it happens all over again. The day after that is the same, and the one after that, and so on.
The routine cuts into your brain like water carving a river. You don't know what she did to make sure nobody comes looking for you, but no one does.
Eventually the leash lengthens. She starts to restrain herself when feeding, just a little. The fuzz in your head clears some. You grow strong enough to shuffle to the armchair in the living room, or the shower, and then back to bed. The books she reads to you get a bit more complex. You try reading some by yourself, despite the brain fog, and the first time you make it through a whole chapter, she seems so genuinely excited that it takes effort to remind yourself how it must all be an act.
She never acknowledges how long this has been going on, and you've lost track of the time yourself. It's hard to remember how things used to be. The outside world doesn't feel quite real anymore. Your body grows numb to its constant dull aches.
You think about growing old with her.
