[FF]; [MF] (briefly); [Occult]; [Medical]; [Fantasy]

#*I wrote this in a manic state instead of working today. I don’t have any idea if it’s good or not. Enjoy!*

I’m here… in your study… because I need your help. I feel that you’re the only person who can help me before…

*Before what?*

Before… it’s complete. Before I can’t resist any longer.

*We didn’t part ways on the most felicitous of terms, Veronica. I don’t think I need to remind you —*

I know what I said. That was a decade ago, though, and… these recent events have led me to feel inclined to retract my words to you.

*Well, as much as I’ve made a career out of dwelling on the past, I sense it wouldn’t be prudent given the urgency of these present circumstances. Anyhow, we mustn’t lose any time. Do you mind terribly if I record this?*

No, no… whatever helps you… cure me.

*Recording given by Veronica Kaye regarding an apparent encounter with and possible possession by… a succubustic demoness… is how you described it? Taken live from subject on November 16th, 2019. You may begin.*

Right. You have to understand… I feel like I’m losing my mind — nay, I *am* losing my mind. But that’s how I know there’s… still a little bit of myself left. Like somehow, it’s not too late. Or maybe that’s what she wants me to think.

I was never a shy girl. I could speak to anyone about most anything without reservation. I was something of a bully in my youth — dare I say the undisputed alpha of my middle school student population. I had no friends, but I didn’t want them, either. Friends meant the possibility of being let down, betrayed, or worse somehow — having to pretend to feel. I’m not a sociopath. My parents had me tested. Emotion comes to me easily under the right circumstances. But I wanted to design these circumstances around what made me feel safe, and allowing myself to get close to people put that power in the hands of others and, effectively, usurped it from my own.

As I continued to progress through my adolescence, I was presented with situations in which romance would have made good sense. My personality had mellowed since seventh grade; I’d become more adept at expressing empathy; and I was openly regarded as being beautiful. And I knew it, too. I came to realize that I could get anything I desired with just a little sweet talk. “You’re the BEST, cutie! Thank you!” Any man melted in my presence. The trouble was that I found myself also fancying a far more difficult challenge: women. In my repressed hometown, it was impossible to tell which women might fancy me as well. And as such, while I preferred both men and women in the sexual sense, I liked the challenge of seducing another young woman should I be given the opportunity to believe she was interested… and sometimes even if I hadn’t. But romance for love’s sake? No, it just wasn’t for me.

I vowed to myself to get out of such a conservative environment, but in the meantime, I enjoyed my fair share of submissive men who were grateful to be adorned in my lipstick or even my own delicious wetness to a degree I saw fit. I can recall one particular narrow-shouldered fellow who hadn’t a clue about how to act in my presence, but that didn’t stop his cock from eclipsing the limits of his anxiety-bound mind. Up and down, up and down, both of us moaning and quivering, lost inside the massive expanse that had been molded out of the backseat of his Nissan Sentra. I was blessed with a not insignificantly sized clit, and I came to crave the sensation of *riding* a man not only because I loved the psychology surrounding it but also because it felt *incredible*. I remember the orgasm that followed placing my wet pussy onto his face and grinding against him while massaging his excellent cock with my sweating hands. I drank his cum and he drank mine. He had no idea why, even, but he liked it and he let me control him. In summary, I’d been warned for so long to wait until marriage to fuck someone else, but meaningless sex was a far more appealing pathway to my own enjoyment of life.

My first sexual experience with a woman came on a class-wide hike we took when I was a senior, and as I came to realize later… might well have been an encounter the same force who lives inside me now. For years, I was convinced I’d made it up and that my mind had undergone some massive series of hallucinations.

I’d noticed a girl named Abby eyeing me up, but seeing as I’d always known her to be a shy one, her gaze would dart away whenever I’d catch her stare. As we hiked along the outskirts of Rio Blanco County, Colorado, I devised a plan for flirting with her more directly upon reaching our campsite. It wasn’t anything intense — I got the impression it would not be difficult to initiate at least a makeout session with her. Upon arriving at our campsite, my classmates promptly began toasting marshmallows and playing mumblety peg, and I left to relieve myself in the woods. As I ventured into the thick grove of lodgepole pines, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around to find Abby there, somehow looking taller than I’d ever perceived her before.

“Hello, Veronica,” she whispered, although very loudly. There wasn’t something quite right about her. Most of my friends called me Ron or Ronnie. Furthermore, and I don’t even know how to describe this… her eyes were… wrong, somehow. Like, they were there, and they were looking at me, but they weren’t… hers. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say that.

“Why are you going around scaring people like—“

And that was all I could get out before I was shoved onto the ground. She opened her mouth a bit wider, and something other than spit appeared to drip from her teeth, though in the darkness of the forest it was difficult to identify any liquid specifically. Whatever it was, though, it was thick and viscous and glistening.

“Abby, what’s happening, what are you—“

Without warning, she reached out her hand and pulled my hiking pants away from my pelvic area. I was sweating and moist beneath them from a lengthy day of hiking, but she didn’t seem to care as she got down and began to… lick me. Her tongue was monstrous, like a leathery scrap of a belt. She licked my thighs and glared up at me with her seemingly alien eyes. I loved a good fucking as much as the next person, but I was scared. Something was very wrong. And yet… I wasn’t able to leave. There was something compelling me to stay exactly where I was and… fulfill whatever wish Abby desired of me. I craved control in every aspect of my life, but somehow I was able to let it all fall away for this one woman and become her perfect sub.

She pulled my now-damp panties away and began to softly taste me. First with her tongue, and then with her whole mouth. Whoever was in front of me was most decidedly not Abby in anything more than body, but I simply found myself unable to resist this stranger’s touch. She clearly loved my massive clit, and as she continued to enjoy the taste of it she began to insert her long, claw-like fingers into my pussy. I expected it to hurt terribly, but somehow it didn’t — it just felt right, perfect, beautiful. I couldn’t contain my moaning, and I feared the nearby campers might hear me and come to investigate, but when I glanced over, the campsite was dark and every single one of them was gone. This Not-Abby continued to fingerfuck my dripping cunt as she effortlessly moved up to partially straddle me, pausing only for a moment to kiss me with my own wetness. I kissed back as I had been mentally instructed.

Not-Abby flipped herself around and nestled her own smooth cunt on my face. I had never before tasted another woman, but there was no doubt in my mind that this was the single most delicious, perfect-smelling thing that had ever passed over my tongue. If Satan had a pussy, this would be it — the ultimate temptation. I massaged her lips gently with my tongue and she moaned loudly, and while I couldn’t see behind her ass, I could sense something growing warmer near my own vagina. Suddenly, I felt this girl’s fingers tense on the area surrounding my pussy as a wave of vibration pulsed through my body, as if the ground was experiencing an earthquake and my cunt was the fault line. I could feel my wetness dripping down to my ass and falling onto the pine-needle-strewn earth. Our pussies were both beginning to throb. It was somehow crystal-clear to me that not-Abby was not going to cum until I did, and I began readying myself for the huge orgasm I was clearly about to experience. I was practically drowning in her wetness, and as I felt her other hand slide in and out of my cunt, I began to cum when she exclaimed,

“Keep alive the flame, do unto me the same!”

And I proceeded to have the most intense orgasm of my life so far. My body felt as if it were on fire with pleasure. The orgasm was so incredible, in fact, that I passed out. I was found a short while later by my classmates, with my pants down and my fingers covered in dried discharge. It appeared that I had simply masturbated myself into a euphoric state, but even as the girl who I unmistakably knew as Abby peered over at me with our friends, I knew that I had experienced something very different. No one else was likely to believe me, so I took the shame that came with being discovered in my state and moved on. Abby avoided me after that, and I never spoke to her again.

I’ve brought this up to a therapist or two, and all of them, obviously, did their best to convince me that this wasn’t real and that it had simply been a dream or a hallucination. As you well know, I’ve struggled with bad bipolar disorder my whole life. And while I could never shake the feeling that this intense sexual experience *had* actually happened, I eventually convinced myself to let it go for my own mental health.

My family was from a poor Colorado ex-mining town — one that hadn’t yet been infiltrated by toxic Texans and Californians desperate to live in *my* Rocky Mountains — and I was awarded a substantial scholarship to attend University of Rochester in Upstate New York. I spent much of my time pondering the cognitive mysteries of the human brain in Meliora Hall. In my sophomore fall, I took a class entitled, “Human Sexuality” that proved to be nothing more than a labor-intensive investigation into concepts I already understood with some neuroimaging data to back up the professor’s points.

Towards the end of the semester, I found myself in that professor’s office hours. Her name was Dr. Nicole Rahman, and I didn’t particularly care for her class, but after having a look through a copy of her CV on her website, I came to find her area of research to be intriguing. Dr. Rahman was a sternly built woman of age 65 or 70, and she was primarily interested in how people came to develop sexual tendencies — not so much from a sociological perspective, but rather, for example, if someone was exposed to a repeated stimulus or environment, would there be a noticeable cognitive or neurological impact pertaining to sex drive, fetishism, etc?

I knocked on Dr. Rahman’s door that day and inquired about openings on her research team. She immediately stopped me and explained that there were no current openings. When I pressed about future possibilities, she curtly explained there was a waiting list with seven people placed ahead of me, and that there was “no way to know if I’d be a good fit anyway.” Dejected, I asked about a couple of questions regarding one of our recent readings. She began to clarify the second of my two questions when her desk phone rang.

“Hello? … the flame? You’re sure? I’ll be right there.” She leapt out of her chair with a look on her face that was somehow both horrified and thrilled. After locking the door behind us, she apologized for having to cut our time short and said goodbye. I left my name and email address with her in case she was able to find an opening, but the fall and spring semesters progressed without any communication.

Sometime in October of my junior year, though, I got an email from Dr. Rahman. It came through late at night as I was trying to fall asleep — sometime after 2 am. Bizarrely, it was sent not from a UR email address, but rather her private email with a .att extension, I believe. The subject line was blank, and the message consisted of only a few lines.

*I have an opening for a volunteer research assistantship. If you are still interested, please come see me tomorrow after 9pm at 924 S Monrovia St, 14613.*

I’d forgotten about her lab over the summer, having accepted to myself that I wasn’t getting in. Nonetheless, the infant language-learning lab I’d been working for just wasn’t piquing my overall interest, so I made the decision to venture over. As I waited the next day, slogging through my usual coursework, I went to Dr. Rahman’s website to review her most recently literature, only to discover that it had been taken down. Additionally, her faculty profile on the university website had been removed. I searched her name on the internet, hoping to find an article about her that would shed some light on this but… nothing.

Upon reaching the address — Dr. Rahman’s home — I found myself surprised at the dilapidated state of both the house and the lawn, each looking to have been abandoned for months. A rusty Mercury Villager was parked in the driveway with a noticeably flat rear tire. I pushed through the gate and walked up onto the squeaking porch. I knocked, and Dr. Rahman opened the door — slowly at first, then normally when she saw who I was. She invited me inside, and I noticed that both the house and her appearance mirrored what I’d seen on the outside: unkempt, uncared for, and positively filthy. A myriad of foul odors leapt off of the doctor’s skin, clothes, and breath, and it took serious effort to keep from retching.

“I’m really glad we’re able to work together.”

“What’s going on? I tried to check your website, but it was… gone. So was your UR profile.”

“The university decided that my skills and research agenda were… no longer of any benefit to their institution. I’m working independently now, which has honestly been a blessing as I no longer have to fight through the red tape of an academic institution to achieve research that been… well, anything but fruitful.”

She took me into the study nearby and explained to me, “You have to understand that in my heyday, anything was possible. I wasn’t publishing constantly, but I was. getting. results. My CV ought to be pages and pages longer than it is, but there would be no approval for much of my work. Interest, of course. But institutional support? Never. Too costly for them when things would inevitably go wrong.”

“When…?” I remember asking

“Veronica, if you’re going to work for me,” she said, “I have to know your commitment to the science we’re investigating. It goes beyond helping you get a degree or a job. Those will come to *you*. I need to know that you’ll go beyond what it takes to get those in the name of exploration.”

I stammered some words that I think formed a reply of confusion.

“I’m just assessing your fit with the lab, Veronica. This is a standard procedure for any lab, but it’s especially… necessary for mine,” Dr. Rahman explained.

Why the pause? I was growing afraid, but while the unlocked door stood only a single room away, I felt as if I couldn’t leave. As though by entering this house, I was bound by some curse that existed within it… one that demanded I stay put.

“I… I… okay. I’m committed.” And despite the terror growing within me, her subject of study was fascinating to me, and even if this didn’t work out, I would undoubtedly have no trouble funneling whatever skills I gained here into gainful employment or a successful grad school career elsewhere.

She smiled. “Mmm… good, good. Let’s go introduce you to the girls.”

Dr. Rahman took me down a narrow, tight staircase leading into a damp, dark basement. A couple of dim incandescent bulbs served as the primary lights in the space, and they were just barely bright enough for me to notice two women about my age milling about, using a series of very dim computers and writing things down on old notebooks that appeared to be falling apart from use. A bookcase full of such notebooks sagged beneath the weight of the paper next to the bottom landing.

My new supervisor spoke. “Girls, this is Veronica Kaye. She’s our new assistant and she’ll be handling subject relations from here on out.” I still had many, many questions. What did this pay? What would my hours be? Would I be able to validate this research for credit? What was my job description, exactly? Subject relations?!

The two women each said hello and then went back to their work. Dr. Rahman told me the one on the left was called Julieta Delgado, and the one on the right was named Elsie Jacobson. Elsie worked in recruitment and data analysis, and Julieta primarily maintained the equipment and set up for the experiments. Unlike the doctor and the rest of the space, these two women were very put together and seemed as they would in any lab setting at the university. As we left the women to their work, the former professor handed me a double-sided sheet of paper that described my job. When we had study participants, it was my job to check on them, explain the studies we were running, and handle any follow-up concerns they may have. *Follow-up concerns?* I thought as I read through. In my language lab, parents never had concerns about their children following studies.

Again, though, I felt as though I… couldn’t leave. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to, despite the pit forming in my stomach. I can’t describe it, really… this sense of feeling your destiny become clear and yet so vague. It was the same kind of feeling I remember experiencing when not-Abby more or less assaulted me in my home county….

*Veronica, it’s extremely late. Is all this background absolutely necessary?*

I find myself wanting to paint you a picture of exactly who I was like before the… changes started taking place.

*I already knew who you were. You seemed it not necessary to mention our relationship.*

Well, what’s the point of describing what you already know about my early college experiences? I made no secret of my disdain for your paranormal research, we had a massive fight, and it became clear that we would never see eye-to-eye on that subject. At least, not until it was probably much too late.

*You don’t know it’s too late for you.*

Zoe, I wouldn’t be coming back to you if I weren’t at this point of desperation. We’re incredibly fortunate that she’s being quiet right now. Even she gets tired.

*Right. Continue, and please try and get to the point.*

What point? You already know *”the point”*. That’s not really why we’re here.

*Just… fine. I want to get to the “helping” stage as quickly as we can.*

Well, I worked in the lab for the rest of my undergraduate career. Left the infant language acquisition lab and started here, even though I wasn’t able to get credit for it since I wasn’t doing my research at an institution. When a participant would come in, I’d explain to them that we were going to show them various stimuli, they’d consent to receive various physical sensations applied to their genitalia, and then we’d pay them a thousand dollars for their time. I had no earthly clue where Dr. Rahman received her funding for this project, but money was never a concern. Once, when I asked my boss in front of my coworkers, Julieta said it came “from the flame”, and Rahman shot her a stern look. I asked what flame to which she was referring, but I was told that was classified information and that, as an undergraduate, I wasn’t authorized to know.

After graduation, I began to work with the lab full-time alongside Julieta and Elsie. I can’t recall anything really negative happening during our time there. In exchange for a hefty payment, our patients signed airtight NDAs and we’d only occasionally hear from one of them again, usually asking if we had any more ongoing studies of which they could be of use. We recruited male, female, and non-binary participants, and I’ll fully admit that seeing as it was MY job to hook their… undercarriages up to our sensors and stimulators while they were in our imaging machine (an extremely expensive MRI machine that, again, I had no idea how were paying for), I’d sometimes have a little fun with them afterwards. No one ever complained.

This was about six months ago, and it all led up to the… the night….

*The night?*

Well it seemed like any other night, only as I was just about to leave for home, a tall, thickset man approached me on the gravel path outside the house. I asked if I could help him.

He replied, “I’m here on behalf of the flame. I’m looking for Dr. Rahman.”

I explained that I was a paid assistant and that my boss had left for the day, but I said I could take a message for her. He shook his head and explained that it was too important. I tried calling my boss on my cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I apologized to the man, but he was growing impatient. He began walking up to the house, brushing me aside like I was a willow branch. He found his way downstairs in an instant. I followed him and tried to call my boss again. Straight to voicemail. Elsie had fallen asleep next to her computer but was woken up by the sudden intrusion of the large man.

He turned to both Elsie and me and bellowed, “Get Nicole here, and do. it. now!”

Elsie and I exchanged frightened glances, neither one of us knowing where Dr. Rahman lived. I tried to call her a third time. Same end result.

Suddenly, the basement door slammed open against the hallway wall. There, completely naked, was the head of my lab. Her eyes bore the same exact… foreignness that I had seen when I’d bet not-Abby in the woods — almost as if they were slightly luminescent — as well as the unmistakeable dripping of blood coming from her mouth. My skin crawled as she slowly made her way downstairs. She turned to face us, almost robotically, and the man yelled, “Your ten years are up. You’ve ignored our contact attempts. The flame going to end us all.”

My boss (not-Nicole, we’ll call her?), still completely nude despite the presence of a robe within her reaching distance, said nothing. She began to pace around the damp basement floor, while the large man looked at her expecting a response. Eventually, her non-human eyes fixated on me. I asked my boss if there was anything I could do to help. She still remained silent. I glanced over at Elsie who had the same… somehow evil eyes and blood around the corners of her mouth. She wasn’t moving, and each breath she drew appeared forced and irregular, like there was something blocking her airways but she was somehow paralyzed. *Did I look like that, too?*

Almost in unison, not-Nicole and not-Elsie strode quickly to the bookshelf that had been at the bottom of the staircase, except the stairs were no longer there. In all my terror, I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. I was trapped. It had become clear that even though I’d worked here for almost three years, there was a great deal I didn’t know.

I heard a noise at my left, and I turned to find an apparently not-Julieta there as well. She’d left hours earlier, but some other version of her had come back for this… whatever it was. The three women began to fling notebooks containing a decade’s worth of study data onto the wet, stone floor.

They broke apart the rotting shelves with their bare hands, revealing the exposed backing plank of the bookshelf. It was loose, and three of them ripped it out. Behind it was a heavy, thick metal door with three padlocks affixed to the side. Each woman had a key as if they’d been anticipating such a ritual. The man, still in the room with us, just stared on as though he were waiting for something. The women inserted their keys into the locks and snapped them open, then backed away as the door squeaked open with a horrifying groan. Beyond it was a pitch-black room with a single bare bulb the switch for which was behind the bookcase’s frame.

The man seemed to have a realization about something, and it only made him angrier. “Do you mean to tell me that you’d known, but had wasted OUR time and money? That we could have ended this long ago?”

Not-Nicole turned to him sharply and replied, “You’re not good at quality control. We knew immediately.” Elsie flicked on the light and I edged towards the doorway. The smell of stale, metallic blood overtook me as though I’d just stumbled into an abandoned morgue. But apart from a drain in the center of the room, there was nothing else to speak of. No boxes, no notebooks, not even any old computer equipment.

Without warning, I was shoved to the floor and the door was slammed and locked behind me. I heard the clicking of the padlocks as I banged on the door, followed by the sound of something pouring onto the ground and a match striking. All three women shouted, “Ensnare the flame! Ensnare the flame!”

Smoke began to pour in from under the door as their voices faded. Despite the room being completely sealed, I felt a hot blowing wind pour around me. And then I heard a voice. A deep, female voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.

**”I’ve known about you a long time, Veronica. I’ve watched you… closely,”** it said,

“Who are you?” I pressed.

The voice laughed slowly. **“I AM heat. I am desire. I am the Flame.”**

“Let me out of here!”

**”You’ll get out just fine,”** she reassured me. **”We both will.”**

I glanced around worriedly as smoke began to overtake the room. I coughed as I breathed it in. I looked down and, for reasons I couldn’t explain back then, my hand was pulling down my leggings, revealing my sweat-soaked legs, as if it had a mind of its own.

**”Reach your hand down into your underwear,”** the Flame calmly stated.

I reached my hand into my light blue panties, smoke all the while overtaking my lungs. Amazingly, I was already incredibly wet in spite of the terror that consumed my body.

**”Veronica, stick a single finger into yourself,”** the voice echoed. I obeyed and began to cautiously fuck myself, noticing that the more I did, the more I felt a gradually increasing sense of pleasure as if I were becoming more sensitive somehow. It seemed biologically impossible.

**”Two fingers now.”** I became more acutely aware of the increase in responsiveness of my g-spot as I progressed.

**”Now, fingers on your clit.”** Well, she knew what I liked.

After some time, she guided me further. **“I want you to insert three fingers, now.”** And somehow, with this further insertion to my dripping cunt, the heightened ability to feel myself made sense.

I was gradually coming to experience two simultaneous orgasms. Mine and…

And in an instant, I understood. Or, rather, I think SHE made me understand. Not where she fit into the world, but where I fit into hers. I had a fate… a destiny… whether I wanted it or not.

**”Touch your clit, very gently at first.”** I did as I was told, and felt my body rocked by the same hot, vibrating sensations I’d felt not-Abby give me. I could now do it to myself. And… and to…

I couldn’t think. My body was rapt in pleasure, and I was willing to anything it took to keep going.

The voice, though was gone. The Flame had stopped talking, but somehow that didn’t matter. As I continued to breathe the smoke around me, I noticed it to be gradually dissipating from the room. There wasn’t as much as there was a few minutes ago. And with every breath of smoke, I was less likely to cough, marveling at how the presence in my lungs began to feel *amazing* instead of sickening. And as I grew less likely to cough, the more I could feel that the Flame and I were merging, fulfilling what was likely some sort of ancient prophecy. She would become me, I would become her.

By the time I put *four* of my fingers inside my pussy and fucked myself silly, I realized that in order to turn back, all I had to do was stop. To take my hand off my cunt and just wait. It would break everything and the Flame would die. But at this point, I didn’t want that. I only wanted her inside me, forever bound to my body, as if I’d developed Stockholm syndrome for my cruel but loving possessor.

She began to count down from ten inside my head. I moaned uncontrollably in the process. I wanted this transformation more than I’d ever wanted anything. With each number counted away, my purpose was revealed to me. I was to fuck anyone and everyone I could, feeding off of them, and giving the Flame more and more flesh and power.

**“Three. Two. One.”**

As I breathed the last of the smoke into my body, I felt an indescribably intense release coursing throughout my entire body. One thought remained in my mind as I once again passed out.

*I won’t let you down. I’ll dominate the world, but I will be your eternal slave in exchange for your love and to keep having sex *this good* as long as I may live.*

I didn’t awake until many hours later. I didn’t feel any different than I had when I’d come into work that day, except for the fact that I was laying, utterly nude, in the smoldering ruins of the house in which I’d worked. I, unlike my surroundings, was completely untouched. Firemen and women rushed me to an ambulance, where I learned that the bodies of three women were found in the basement but were, as of yet, unidentified. I made a full recovery, and the medical professionals who attended to me found themselves stunned at my lack of damage. I was questioned by law enforcement and I told them that I’d become trapped in there and was unable to be saved. This was corroborated by the locks on the door, implying the three now-dead women had, in fact, kept me from being able to escape and had stayed with me while the house burned down. I, of course, didn’t mention their eyes. I know now that by becoming the Flame, I have freed them from their affliction.

I’ve tried to live a normal life since then, but nothing is the same. All I think about is sex, all the time. Somehow, my physical self looks perfect without any work. My face has reformed, my breasts are larger, my ass more full, my hair an even brighter red. I know that without a doubt the Flame has made me the most beautiful woman in the world to make my duty as a succubus even easier to accomplish.

And Zoe, don’t misunderstand. I know this is all so, so wrong. My Veronica self understood that everything the Flame wishes of me is evil. But as these months have progressed, I’ve found that side of myself dissipating, and while I attempt not to succumb to these urges I feel, I can tell that I am the liaison between Earth and something else that’s far bigger than me. Then any of us. Something that needs to be kept OUT if your — I mean our — kind is to have any chance of surviving. I need to be freed, but I don’t want to be. I’ve grown accustomed to being one with the Flame. Addicted, even. But while I still have any humanity left, I felt it was necessary to involve… you. Because there really is a paranormal dimension, and you’re the most knowledgeable person about it in my life right now.

*Mmmph… I don’t know what our next move is. Understanding the nature of the paranormal is my specialty. Exorcisms? Certainly not. And even if we did exorcise the Flame from you, would she not simply possess another young woman and turn HER into the new manifestation of the Flame? I’m going to need some time…*

You don’t have much time. My resistance is wearing down by the day. I know I can’t keep her from overtaking me completely.

***knock knock knock***

Who the hell is visiting you THIS late, Zoe?
*I don’t know. I’ll go check.*

*squeak*

*Veronica… there’s a Julieta here to see you.*

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/nr1lu3/ff_mf_briefly_occult_medical_fantasy