He reached out and touched my face. His hands were cool, like the wrong side of a pillow, and his claws—painted black, filed to delicate points—traced the line of my jaw. This was the "succubus" part. I felt not lust, but hunger . A metaphysical siphon. He wasn't stealing my breath; he was stealing my loneliness. Every time he blinked, I saw a flash of a different life—a version of me that had confessed, that had danced, that had not hung up the phone.
That’s when I woke up, with a phantom weight on my chest and the distinct feeling that I hadn't finished my shift. Somewhere, in the recursive servers of the Catboy Work, the Succubus Femboy is still sitting at my desk, sorting through my loneliness, one seductive spreadsheet at a time. And in v11, I think I'll let him stay. the succubus femboy in my dream v10 catboy work
The “v10” designation indicates this is the tenth iteration of the idea. This suggests: He reached out and touched my face