AITA: A Modern Sapphic Fairy Tale by Author Cassie Alexander

Tablet showing cover of "AITA?" by Cassie Alexander with two lesbians embracing and laughing; one is a blonde woman, the other is a green winged demon.

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Then I scented something new. A little bit of spice, a little bit of musk—and I was quite sure the candles had all been scentless before. But before I could ask Logan if he smelled it too, a cloud appeared in the salt at the center of the circle—like the candlelight was illuminating dust our cleaners missed—and then it got stronger and gained form until she was present.

And I don’t know what I’d been expecting—I just never could’ve imagined summoning her.

The being in front of us wasn’t just like a happy little ditzy, bouncy succubus like they showed in the commercials for the sex shops.

First off—she was definitely a woman. Yes, she had curves, and yes, they were bracketed by the finest fetish gear that I had ever seen, a series of bust- and hip-clinging straps that barely hid anything, but despite her near-nudity her entire presence screamed “self-possessed,” and she hadn’t even fully turned around yet.

But when she did my heart leapt into my throat. Her hair was so dark-green it was almost black, and a wave of it swept over her high cheekbones, old-Hollywood-glamour style. She had full forest-green lips, chocolate-brown eyes, and all of her very visible skin was a shaded spring-green. She was stunning—so put together and so pretty that I had to look away.

I’d been creeping behind Logan out of nervousness as the cloud appeared, but now I was glad of his larger bulk to hide me.

“Welcome, succubus,” Logan asked, his eyes flicking back and forth to the spell brochure’s page, still clearly following its instructions.

“My name is Quenalith the Conqueror, and I am no mere succubus,” she said, staring at him imperiously, one perfect eyebrow cocked—and then she spotted me, and lightly frowned. “And you are?” she asked.

“Logan Graff,” Logan said, giving her his full name, like we were at the DMV.

I didn’t say anything, I just swallowed.

Quenalith ignored him. “And you?” she asked me.

I liked to think that I was not modest, despite all evidence to the contrary, and that I was not a prude, same-same, but at that moment, I had never felt more naked in my life.

“Becky,” I squeaked out, my voice breaking.

“Ah,” the demon said, tilting her head slightly.

I couldn’t help but notice how elegant her neck was. Her hands, too. And I had no doubt that when she walked her hips would rock back and forth like a runway model’s.

Quenalith eyed me, like she could read my mind, and I full-body flushed, desperately hoping that that was not the case.

“Well, humans,” she said, “before you get any ideas, let me give you all my rules. First off—you touch me, you die,” she said, pointing at Logan.

I felt him tense. “W-what?” he sputtered.

“You clearly heard me,” she said, unwilling to repeat herself.

“But—I summoned you!” he protested.

“Yes, you did,” she said, walking to the edge of the nearest design element, to tap the line of salt at its edge with the pointy toe of her high-heeled boot. “And just how good a job do you think you did, if I’m the creature that you got?”

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I COULD NOT put this down. Everything about this book was well written, even the author's note. It resonated with me as a queer person who came out later in life."

-Amazon Reviewer

AITA? is a sizzling sapphic romcom based on instantly recognizable internet lore.

Dear Schmedit:

This past weekend my fiancé (24 M) and I (23 F) were at a party at a friend’s and I’ll admit we both got pretty wasted....

Apparently sometime that night he asked me if it was okay to summon a demon for a threesome before our wedding, and according to him, I told him, “Yes.”

I don’t actually remember this happening so clearly? But his friends must have heard me—because a week later, they’d all pitched in to have a Delectably Demonic ™ summoning kit delivered to our house for him.

I want to put my foot down, but that would make him sad. I think he was really looking forward to it after I told him it’d be okay—and his friends really did spend a lot of money on this thing. It’s top of the line, and they can’t return it. You know how demons are.

So I kind of feel like a jerk. I mean, I did say yes, and I don’t want to let him down.

If I tell him no... AITA?

“Logan, does it have to sit on our coffee table?”

The Delectably Demonic summoning kit looked like a cross between one of those canisters they had for larger fireworks around the fourth of July and a ridiculously large caliber rifle bullet. The top unscrewed and everything you needed to perform a “quality” summoning was inside: the salt, the spells, and the measuring tape, so you could create the lines you needed quite precisely.

Cheaper summoning kits—where you knew you were only going to summon up a succubus for long enough to get a handy, according to the “research porn” I’d looked at—were made of cardboard, and had little succubi holding pitchforks printed along the sides winking saucily with their hips cocked out.

This one was comparatively tasteful. It was made of burnished, forest-green-colored metal, and if you didn’t know better, you could pretend it was a work of art, which was something I would know—I worked at an art gallery.

I counted out ten heartbeats, waiting for him to respond. It was habit I’d recently picked up to try to calm my nerves now that I wasn’t drinking, to try to get me more conscious of my own presence in my body. “I mean really, Logan,” I went on, and he looked up at me from in our kitchen, where he’d been portioning out tomorrow morning’s coffee into the machine.

“What?” he asked, like he hadn’t heard me.

“Does it have to sit here?” I repeated.

He pretended to consider things. “Oh, you’d rather me put it on the bookcase? Or maybe the mantel, beneath the TV?”

“You know what I mean,” I told him.

“I do. But I also know what you said. Y-E-S,” he spelled out, before giving me a grin.

I sighed. “This is bullshit and you know it.”

He laughed, finishing setting the coffeemaker’s dials. “I’m not a jerk, Becky. I’m never going to make you do anything you don’t want to. I just think our relationship’s strong enough to handle this is all. Don’t you?”

I looked between the summoning kit and him. We were getting married in two weeks—I’d better be sure of him. “Y-E-S,” I spelled back. “But right now? When I’m hip-deep in wedding planning?”

“That’s why my mom got you a wedding planner,” he said, ever so reasonably.

“Uh, no, your mom got herself a wedding planner,” I muttered. It’d been pretty clear that marrying into the Graff family, my opinions on my actual wedding were extraneous. I just hadn’t cared, because, well, his mom cared so much, and my parents weren’t alive anymore, anyhow.

“Well, if it’s a timing thing, then all the more reason we should do it sooner than later. Then, poof, it’s gone, out of the way—and off the table.” He put his hands on the back of one of our dining room chairs and lounged over it sexily.

Logan Graff was, for all intents and purposes, a hunk. From his chiseled face with his inquisitive eyes, his leanly muscled arms and washboard abs—I knew when I first spotted him on the campus quad that he would be a catch—then he’d walked over, and somehow, I had caught him.

And now his great-grandmother’s diamond ring was on my finger, there was a demon summoning kit in my living room, and it felt a little bit like all the walls were closing in.

“I just . . .” I began, my voice drifting, entirely unsure how to explain how I felt to him. I loved him. I loved our life. I loved our apartment. I loved our dog—okay, we didn’t actually have a dog yet, but we had the kind of lives where we could have a dog, and it felt like that should count for something.

We were perfect on paper. Logan was the tab A to my slot B, and I knew, quite viscerally, that I didn’t want to be alone in the world: after my parents died, shit had sucked.

He was good to me, and I liked that.

It would be so stupid of me to walk away—especially when I didn’t have anything else to walk toward.

“Tonight’s clearly not the night,” he said, cutting me off with his usual congeniality, and then he raked his eyes over me with a look. “Bedtime?” he suggested with intent.

“Y-E-S,” I spelled in relief.

Anything to get away from that thing—and to pretend that everything was good.

4.5