“Abigail?” called a voice. “Is that you?”
“M-Mom?!” Abigail called back. Her cheeks had grown pale, and her eyes were wide as dinner plates. “Wh-what are you doing up this early?”
“Oh, I had a late night at the brothel, dear,” the voice replied. “I was planning to make myself something to eat and head to bed, actually. But what are you doing here? Don’t you have work, today? You didn’t get fired, did you, dear?” The owner of the voice came into view with that question, stepping out of what I assumed to be the kitchen and peering curiously at us. She had long, wavy brown hair cascading down to her waist and pitch black eyes. She was well endowed, much more so than Abigail, with breasts you could bury your face in. Probably a D-36, about, if I had to guess? Her ass was pretty big, too, more than big enough to fill the average person’s palms. She was wearing a backless red halter top, and a black skirt. She looked to be in her late twenties, or maybe early thirties, but judging by her conversation with Abigail I doubted that either was actually the case. Judging by the black leathery wings that stretched out behind her, she was a lesser succubus like Abigail. That meant her lifespan was almost as long as… Well, mine, I supposed.