Miriam Cohen was gobsmacked: mother had arranged a valentine's date for her. Not with a random young man, of course; rather, mama confided, in hushed tones, that David’s mother had confided, in hushed tones, “Doctor potential.”
He was intuitive, recognising Miriam’s filial piety to the rigmarole surrounding a maternally arranged rendezvous on Valentine’s Day. And the well-judged gift, a history book, got her nattering. So, as she told her mother on returning home, her evening had been, “Nice.” She added, knowing an indulgent smile would crease mama’s face, that she’d catch up with David at the university coffee shop sometime soon.
Settling into bed with her tattered teddy, Miriam lifted her laptop from the well-thumbed copy of Pride and Prejudice on her bedside table. She often imagined herself as Elizabeth Bennet; independent and sassy. Yet, she’d felt no Elizabeth-sized emotions, liking or loathing, on meeting her parents’ definition of a suitable boy; nice was as good as it got.
Keira Knightley was Miriam’s favourite Elizabeth Bennet, second wasn’t even close. She’d discovered online a high-resolution photo of the model, Cassandra Leigh, who was Kiera’s doppelgänger. Opening that black and white nude on her computer, Miriam was again entranced by plastered wet hair framing Cassandra’s beautiful face. As her eyes drifted down to petite breasts capped with dark bullet nipples, Miriam’s index finger pressed into her mound. Scooping arousal from her folds, she smeared her clit with honey.
Her other hand slipped under a Hello Kitty nighty. Cupping a breast, she teased the nipple, which bloomed into Cassandra-like hardness. She pinched that swollen nipple. Her mouth formed a perfect O. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts. A blush materialised, vivid on her body’s damp sheen.
Licking her lips, she wondered for the umpteenth time if Cassandra’s pretty pussy ever got as squishy as hers. Sighing needily, Miriam, curled two fingers into her opening. Sliding knuckles through the velvet wetness stretched her in the way she’d come to adore. As she began finger-fucking herself with deep scissoring thrusts, her thumb mashed onto her swelling button.
Whimpering, her eyes glazed over. Her world narrowed; it was Cassandra’s fingers drawing those delicious sensations from her sex. Hips thrusting up drove her fingers deeper. Biting her bottom lip, she swallowed the instinct to moan. With a thumb slapping her clit, her body rippled and shuddered. A monstrous orgasm flooded her hand. “Oh God, Cassandra.”
Panting, she once again heard what she’d begun to imagine were appreciative chirps and squeaks. She slyly glanced out of her bedroom’s skylight window at the bat who’d taken to roosting under the eaves. Giggling, she called out, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” before falling asleep.
That date cast the die for Miriam’s university year. From time to time her mother set her up with boys of doctor or, at a pinch, lawyer potential. She pleased her mother by mustering sufficient enthusiasm to remark how nice her dates were. But, upstairs in bed, her teddy and the bat outside began to appreciate the contrast between inconsequential boy-dates and consequential girl-gasms.
Miriam discovered it wasn’t just Cassandra who got her juices flowing. She came to appreciate the highways and byways of girl-on-girl GIFs, a delightfully diverse and sometimes perverse source of visual temptation. At university she spread her wings, joining religiously-themed discussion groups, where she started meeting, unchaperoned, those whose opinions her father would certainly say were well short of orthodox. In a pseudepigrapha discussion, she was as delighted as she was shocked by the state of her panties after a redhead called Lilith introduced herself.
But, as the next Valentine’s Day approached, her mother, voice infused with worry, asked her husband if he feared Miriam wasn’t as enamoured by boys with doctor prospects from good families as they’d expected her to be. She was uneasy this might mean a gentile son-in-law.
Miriam’s father, however, was more worldly-wise. His wife’s question had the words, “Enamoured by boys?” rattling around his head. He’d participated in a synagogue-sponsored discussion group on ‘Faith in the Community,’ and recalled the leader, Dalv Sepet, stressing the temptations the modern world posed for young people’s faith. Miriam’s father took Dalv’s counsel.
“The internet’s where young people are alone, without guidance.”
“Miriam’s allowed a study computer for university.”
“Check her browser history. A pure history will give your wife confidence to push on with finding that suitable boy.”
“It’s an invasion of privacy!”
“Worth it to save Miriam’s immortal soul.”
“And if she habitually makes impure searches?”
“If Satan has planted the seed of sinful sexual proclivities in Miriam’s mind, our community’s conversion therapy programme is world-renowned for rooting out inappropriate thoughts.”
Miriam was sipping crappy university coffee with David. Had her mother known another Valentine’s Day was being spent with the most suitable of prospects, she’d have been tempted to whisper conspiratorially about the match’s possibilities with David’s mother. However, a blossoming romance between Miriam and David would have been news to their friends. Likewise, their matchmaking mothers would have been surprised to see a vivacious, dark-haired, olive-skinned student sit between David and Miriam. And stunned when she kissed them; the former passionately, the latter chastely.
David had a girlfriend. It was all a bit Romeo and Juliet; he couldn’t come out to his parents about Gianna. Her coming from a devout family would never be enough; David knew Catholicism was a bridge too far for his mother. Understanding those family pressures had deepened Miriam and David’s friendship. They’d become conspirators; giggling, she’d agreed David could occasionally drop her name into family conversations.
Miriam adored how cute it was; loved watching Gianna and David’s eyes light up on seeing each other. Of course, she’d never share that most private of thoughts; she’d have loved Gianna’s gaze to focus on her. Sometimes temptation overcame her. Miriam hid her teddy under the pillow and finger fucked her pussy to oblivion while staring at a photo she’d taken of Gianna, eyes sparkling, leaning forward, emphasising her décolletage. Yet, after every fabulous orgasm, Miriam promised herself, never again. But, as Gianna-cums had become way too addictive, more intense than GIF-girls including Cassandra, that was a promise she couldn’t keep.
Having done with coffee, the lovers headed off, jilting Professor Abrams’ afternoon lecture on Hebrew mythology, preferring to spend their first Valentine’s Day as a couple fornicating.
“To some, she’s the original feisty woman. But, to others ….” the professor paused theatrically; smirking, she’d the pitch-perfect punch line for a Twilight-generation class. “To others, she’s the first vampire.”
Having captivated her students, Professor Abrams foreshadowed her next lecture on creation myths. “Think you know the Adam and Eve story? Did you realise Lilith, not Adam, not Eve, was created first? But Lilith considered herself a man’s equal: no way she’d tolerate Adam topping her.”
Miriam Cohen, usually church-mouse-quiet in class, intrigued by interrupting. “Lilith hankers after women!”
An academic on the experienced side of forty, Professor Abrams had a penchant for mentoring young women, especially nerdy ones coming to terms with sapphic yearnings. But, supportive whispers in Ms Cohen’s ear were best kept for another day. She’d promised her wife to be home early for their candlelight valentine’s dinner.
She smiled meaningfully at Miriam, whose adorable blush had Professor Abrams recalling her favourite Oscar Wilde saying, ‘The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.’ Better to leave now, she thought, wiggling into her winter coat and quickly concluding the lecture.
“We will cover Lilith’s sexuality next time, Miriam. For now, I’ll leave you with this. If Lilith was first in God’s natural order, then what do you imagine she thinks about you and me, Adam and Eve’s descendants, God’s chosen people?”
A chilly zephyr rustled the last of the desiccated leaves on the University’s main quadrangle as Professor Abrams headed into the misty early evening. On the other side of the courtyard, the light in front of the alleyway between the sandstone buildings that led to the staff car park cast eerie shadows through the colonnade.
As she confidently strode between the columns, the professor’s stride shortened. Leaning against the lamppost was a young woman and not just a run-of-the-mill type of woman. Even in the gloaming, the older woman quickly concluded that the svelte redhead was the most gorgeous creature she’d ever laid eyes on.
Professor Abrams paused, marvelling at pale skin sprinkled with pretty freckles around her nose. Puzzlingly there were also hints of the scorching southern heat about her, which that fiery hair accentuated. Further rational thought was extinguished when the older woman glanced into the younger woman’s icy blue eyes. The professor was unmoored by azure irises that weren’t the fresh inquisitive eyes of similarly aged students. Rather the weight of the world seemed frozen into this woman’s gaze.
But then the redhead smiled; a dimpled, sweet, almost coy smile, yet one ripe with the promise of intoxicating sensuality. Her commitment to being home slipped from her mind, intrigued, the older woman smiled back, unaware she’d also licked her lips. That had the younger woman coquettishly giggling; experience had taught her how delicious it was seeing a shocked look on the face of yesterday’s predator on realising she’d become today’s prey.
Reading that giggle as an invitation for a carefully-calibrated ad-lib line, the professor’s mouth opened. But it was already too late for words. The young woman’s breath was in Professor Abrams’s face. Pale hands tore at her scarf. Neck exposed; the redhead bared her fangs. Canines pierced the professor’s skin, seeking the jugular. The sensual ache of the bite rippled through her body, caressing her clit.
As the artery was pierced, her pussy liquified. Blood gushed into the redhead’s mouth. She savoured, as always, the first warm taste of God’s nourishing nectar. Then she focused; gulping again and again. With each nutritious slurp, the professor’s existence ebbed away. Yet with her final heartbeats, the stunned professor understood. This day was her life’s purpose. So, with her last breath, she reverently whispered, “Lilith.”
“Guess Professor Abrams won’t be up to telling me any more Lilith myths.”
Lilith let the professor slip from her grasp and thud onto the alleyway pavement. Licking the last drop of blood from her lips, she smirked at Miriam who’d watched her feed.
“You know what she’d say: baby stealing, demonic slut.”
“You told me you were?”
“No. I only said that after the Garden of Eden, I went demon fucking near Babylonia. Never stole babies.”
“Apparently, you’re also the first vampire.”
“I guess; you know I can't die. Unlike those stupid fucks, Adam and Eve, I didn’t bite that apple. Let’s get out of here.”
When Miriam arrived home the atmosphere seared with sullen coldness. Her parents had seen what littered her computer’s hard drive. She’d have got away with Cassandra-type photos, arguably tasteful in their discrete nudity. What cooked her goose was a folder of gifs that her father lacked the courage to show his wife.
“Half the pictures on your laptop are women tonguing each other,” her father screamed. That led to many more angry words; breach of faith was said more than once by both father and daughter.
Tears didn’t prevent his fait accompli: university funding was now conditional on a faith-based conversion therapy programme in the summer. Having angrily slammed her bedroom door behind her, Miriam was wrapped in Lilith’s arms.
“My parents don’t understand. Not doing a conversion therapy programme!”
Lilith had been oh so patient, carefully building Miriam’s trust over the previous few months. “David’s a good guy. Shame the only thing about him that dampens your pussy is his girlfriend.”
Miriam smiled wanly. So, Lilith lifted her t-shirt over her head, unsnapped her bra and tossed it at Miriam. Who giggled; God being the only fucker who’d forget their first love had always been an Achilles heel. Black jeans then panties slid down long athletic legs. Miriam’s eyes lingered on the only pubes, other than her own, she’d actually seen. A blush bloomed on her skin as Lilith spread her legs.
“You like this too much don’t you, baby?”
Seeing Miriam lick her lips, Lilith’s finger slid between her fiery pubes and scooped some pussy-cream that she painted on Miriam’s lips. “Taste good too?”
Miriam nodded and licked her lips; this woman had been not only her first kiss but also her first everything. “Addictive.”
Having hooked Miriam on the sex drug, Lilith had drip feed more about herself: undead, shapeshifter, bloodlust. Nothing fazed Miriam, after all, Lilith just seemed to understand.
“You know I can take you away from this.”
“Yes. No choice now.”
“Undress, baby.”
Miriam lay on the bed, legs spread, whimpering, as Lilith twisted the pony end of the ancient Feeldoe-like girl-cock she’d made in the Garden of Eden into her oozing pussy. Lilith’s body hovered over Miriam’s, before doing what she’s done for aeons: a thrust of her hips impaled and stretched her lover-de-jour’s tight pussy.
Then, with a “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” she fucked without restraint, slamming the toy deep and hard, claiming the squelching sex of yet another of Adam’s female descendants. Groaning, Miriam embraced the building pleasure. No resistance; the exquisite waves flowing through her were accentuated by canines penetrating deep into her neck. Miriam howled. Her body shuddered. Her pussy gushed. Her clit spasmed.
Lilith, having drawn her own blood by biting her lip, infused her haemoglobin into Miriam’s. With that infection, Miriam knew she wouldn’t die like Professor Abrams but be reborn undead.
Later that evening, Miriam woke to a thirst of supernatural intensity. “Giana,” was all Lilith needed to say. Miriam’s pussy dripped as the bloodlust clouded her eyes.
From Miriam’s bedroom window two bats, one gliding serenely, one barely in control, headed to where Giana and David were snuggling in post-coital valentine contentment. Miriam didn’t hesitate, sensually overdosing by quickly sinking her virgin fangs into Giana’s neck and nourishing herself by draining her friend of God’s bloody nectar. David was horrified, but his screams were quickly silenced as Lilith’s teeth penetrated his artery.
Vengeance is mine, says the Lilith: that’s been her motto for aeons. Her army of vampire-girl lovers, each one reborn on a feast day of Saint Valentine, is assembled; trained to take revenge on Adam and the so-called God of Love for rejecting their Mistress.
Soon, one Valentine’s Day, the surprisingly sensual canines of Lilith’s handmaidens will seek out both your jugular and your loved one’s jugular. Mouths feasting on your blood will entomb you in Lilith’s nothingness. As your existence ebbs away, do spare a thought for dear sweet Miriam, that apocryphal butterfly whose wing flap has started the chain of events that led to the hurricane which will consume us all.
Of course, one option is to flail helplessly. It’s better to embrace reality; the purpose of our lives is to be fed on. Respect that, and, as your life is extinguished, be like Professor Abrams and respectfully whisper, “Lilith.”
