I Accidentally Summoned A Succubus

James: Intentional Chapter 1

Most people think having tenure at thirty makes you some kind of genius.

They're half right—I am smarter than most people. What they don't realize is that being smart enough to see through everyone's bullshit doesn't make you popular at faculty mixers.

"Professor Weller, you should join us for drinks Friday," Sarah from the English department says, leaning against my office doorframe like she's posing for a faculty calendar. She's the third colleague this week to try getting me alone after hours.

"I'll pass," I say without looking up from the papers I'm grading.

She lingers, waiting for a reason. An excuse. A smile. Something she can file under "still a maybe." I give her nothing.

Eventually she huffs—the little exhale women do when they realize you're not going to play their game—and walks off.

This is my life. Attractive women throwing themselves at the mysterious young professor, and me having zero interest in the drama that comes with workplace relationships. It's not that I don't like sex. I love it.

I just like it on my terms, with my rules, and definitely not with someone who can file a harassment complaint when they don't like how fast they fall.

Besides, I'm busy.

While Sarah's planning her weekend bar crawl, I'll be at home writing stories that make more money in a day than she makes in a semester. Stories about women who don't want polite dates and soft kisses. They want rules. They want structure. They want to be owned.

They want a man who doesn't apologize for seeing them as his.

That's what I give them—fictional men who understand the psychological architecture of control. Not violent. Not abusive. Just… unapologetically dominant. The kind of man who can break a girl down with patience, praise, and a single denied orgasm.

My fans think I'm writing fantasy.

They have no idea how real it feels to me.

You want to understand me? Start here: I've always been different. Not in some tragic, bullied-for-my-brilliance way. Just different.

Other kids cried when their pets died. I calculated how long until the smell would start.

Other teenagers got nervous asking girls out. I figured out exactly what they wanted to hear and delivered it like a script.

The CIA thought I'd be perfect. High IQ, emotionless logic, fast pattern recognition. I breezed through their early filters.

Then came the psych eval.

"Mr. Weller," the interviewer said, closing my file. "You're extremely qualified, but your psychological profile raises concerns."

"Such as?"

"You exhibit classic antisocial markers. No affective empathy. No remorse. You analyze death as data. It's not a disqualifier in some roles. But for the kind of trust-based operations we run…"

He trailed off. What he meant was: You're a psychopath, and we don't trust you not to snap.

He was right. I won't lie about that.

The truth is, I've spent the last eighteen years managing a mind that doesn't work like other people's. I don't feel guilt. I don't feel compassion. I don't cry at funerals, and I don't see the point of pretending.

But I do understand how people work. That's the difference. I don't feel their pain, but I know how to mimic concern. I know how to say the right things, how to charm, how to disarm.

I've been on medication since I was seventeen. Little capsules twice a day—blue in the morning, red at night. They take the edge off and keep me from doing something I'd regret.

Because underneath the suits, the titles, and the polite nods in the hallway, I'm something most people don't want to believe exists in polite society:

A functioning psychopath.

If I don't take my pills, I get... hungry.

Not for food. Not for sex.

For control.

And if people keep pushing me—touching me, talking to me, acting like I owe them some performance of normal—I start imagining things. Like shoving them through a window. Or dragging them into my office and watching their panic rise when I shut the door.

But I've found ways to manage.

One of them is writing.

I lead two different lives. 

One life: Professor James Weller. Boring, respectable, guarded. Teaches Ethics and Symbolism at a respected university. Avoids contact. Keeps everything strictly professional.

The other: SalemVeritas. Anonymous author of bestselling BDSM erotica that readers devour in private and never admit to loving in public.

Fifty million readers. Three international series. Enough income to retire three times over.

I don't write violence. I write control. I write men like me—composed, calm, untouchable—who train women not through pain, but through absolute emotional submission. The kind of control that makes her forget she had a life before him.

My ideal woman? Not one of these tenure-hungry adjuncts who drop innuendos like syllabi.

I want obsession.

I want the girl who lives to be touched. The kind who whines when I don't look at her. Who cries if I don't let her suck me. Who shakes when I ignore her.

I want a pet. Something beautiful and broken and utterly mine. A girl who looks at me like I'm the only thing keeping her soul from disintegrating.

My thoughts are distracted by my phone buzzing. Marcus from the Psychology department.

"James, you free Saturday night? Having a little gathering. Nothing fancy—just drinks and maybe some... unconventional entertainment."

I almost decline automatically. Then something in his tone stops me.

"What kind of unconventional?"

"You know how I've been researching folklore and ritual practices? Well, Linda found this old book at an estate sale. We thought it might be fun to try a little... summoning circle. Very academic, of course. Historical recreation."

I pause. Marcus isn't the type for jokes, and he definitely isn't the type for occult nonsense. Which means either he's having some kind of midlife crisis, or he's found something genuinely interesting.

"You want to perform a summoning ritual."

"Just for fun. See what happens. You're always talking about how people believe in things without evidence—here's a chance to test some old folklore firsthand."

I should say no. I should go home, write my next chapter, and stick to my routine. But something about this appeals to the part of me that's always looking for new experiences, new ways to understand how the world really works.

"What are you trying to summon?"

Marcus laughs, but it sounds forced. "According to the book, a succubus. Seemed appropriately ridiculous."

Now I'm interested. Not because I believe in demons, but because I'm curious what kind of psychological effect this will have on everyone involved. Group psychology, shared delusions, the power of suggestion—it could be fascinating to observe.

"Saturday night," I say. "I'll be there."

"Great. And James? Bring an open mind."

I hang up and lean back in my chair. A summoning ritual. Complete nonsense, obviously. But maybe worth studying how otherwise intelligent people convince themselves that fantasy can become reality.

After all, I make my living turning fantasies into stories. This could be research.