PART ONE
Recap of the Early Slut Years
And if that offends you, stop reading. I’m not ashamed of who I am. It shaped who I became. Someone you don’t fuck with.
CHAPTER 1
Humble Beginnings
As all good autobiographies do, let’s start from the beginning. When I was just an egg and a sperm uniting.
I was conceived on a full moon during Samhain. My succubus mother, born of a demon and a human, joined a coven of witches in dancing around a bonfire to summon the devil. It worked and a good time was had by all at the orgy that ensued.
My mother loved to wax poetic about how screwing the devil was the highlight of her sexual life. Lucky for me, I wasn’t formed yet, so I don’t have to have a memory of that moment.
Did you catch the name drop? Yes, my father is the devil. You’ve probably heard of him. Satan. Beelzebub. Lucifer. The great and mighty Dark Lord. That’s my father, not that I’ve ever been allowed to call him that. Most times I fall back on “sir.” For a man who celebrates sin, he doesn’t tolerate disrespect, even from his daughter.
My mother—Mitzy—was a succubus. In her own right, she’d made a name for herself, but she was far from the best of the best. Why she was the recipient of the devil’s load that night? I can only assume that he was looking for a warm hole to plant his snake and she just happened to be there. It certainly wasn’t because she was special in any way.
And she knew that. Which was exactly why she kept me when she found out she was pregnant. Having Lucifer’s child was a surefire way to make sure he came back again, right? And as long as he was there, perhaps he’d be open to another epic fuck.
The delusions didn’t stop there. My mother actually believed she might have a chance at being queen to Hell’s king.
I don’t have many memories of being a small child and seeing my father, but I do remember the distinct impression that he had no interest in my mother whatsoever.
Not that we spent much time together during my formative years. He only barely showed up, and those memories were blurry. Bits and pieces stood out, such as the fact he smelled funny—I didn’t find out until later that the acrid stench of brimstone clung to those who lived in Hell.
Odd smells aside, my father was always impeccably dressed when he visited, unlike me sporting hand-me-down scraps. My mother didn’t believe in wasting her own money buying me clothes when I could just repurpose hers. A good thing her mini skirts on me went below my knees in elementary school, or I might not have gotten educated at all. By the time I was in grade one, I’d at least learned how to sew, turning the cast-offs into pretty outfits that displayed my cuteness to its best advantage.
A good thing I was charming because the adults around me had problems with my birth. My mother, not the brightest lipstick in the cosmetic bag, had my father’s true name on my birth certificate. Lucifer Baphomet. Address? Hell.
And I sure was a damn adorable little thing. Blonde ringlets and big round eyes, and I could smile and pose like the best of them—having learned from my mother as she was getting ready to go out every night. In anyone else’s care, I’d probably have ended up on the pageant circuit, but my mother did like to please the Dark Lord with her selfish ways.
Mitzy pretty much lived in her own world. One with sex, drugs, and booze. Kind of sad and cliché, and it left enough of an imprint for me to never imbibe. I’d grow up refusing to poison my body with anything that could impair my judgment.
My father, on the other hand, only ever showed up sober. And not very often. He only took me with him a few times to Hell, super blurry recollections, but the one that stood out, the nurse in her green scrubs, aiming a needle at my arm, telling me to not move, she just needed a little bit of blood.
She did a shit job of hitting my flesh. It hurt. Like fucking really hurt, and when I yelped, she smirked and uttered an unrepentant “Oops.”
Just as my father walked into the room.
And then nothing. I still to this day don’t remember what happened after.
Not much I imagine. The only person I remembered too much of was my mother, as she did most of the raising. Not a good thing as it turned out. A succubus lacked a maternal instinct. Mine was all about the high. She used sex to get money to buy drugs and not much else. Given the bare cupboard, I would have been better off living full-time with the Lord of Hell.
I realized later that being a deadbeat dad was a source of pride for him. Not surprising. He was the devil, which meant no child support or even presents. I didn’t even get his last name. My full name, Bambi Josephine Silverdust. A stripper name for a stripper daughter.
Mitzy and I never achieved a close bond. It wasn’t her fault, really. Succubi aren’t built for love, aren’t meant to be nurturing. Her idea of teaching me was to give me cherries with stems and have me practice tying them into knots and then intricate bows. I could pole dance before I walked. Knew the benefit of a properly placed pout and a seductive wink before I was five.
By the time I’d almost hit my double digits, and more than four years since I’d last seen my father, I’d convinced myself all of Mitzy’s tales were lies. No way was she some sort of sex-demon who fed off of the men she slept with. And my father being the devil? Absolute horseshit.
It could all be attributed to my mom being crazy. It was the only conclusion to be had. The proof lay in the many perverse things she had done to entice the Dark Lord back into her arms. How many times had she tried to slap me for driving him away? She claimed I must have done or said something to keep him from her. Being ignored by my father drove my mother mad.
I think that seeing me grow up to be beautiful also helped her take that downward spiral. The more she called me ugly, the better I became at doing my makeup. When she called me stupid, I showed her my straight-A report card to prove her wrong. I swore I saw murder in her eyes when she looked at me, but I reminded her that my daddy was the devil and she better think twice about laying a hand on his kid.
It didn’t matter that I didn’t think it was true. What mattered was that she did, and it was the only threat that kept her in check.
Until the day she finally snapped.
It was over a box of candy. One of the few clients she saw at home came bearing a gift for me. It wasn’t an overture; it was simply a familiar face offering a kid a kindness before he went into the back room to screw my mother.
Mitzy didn’t see it that way. She went into a jealous fit and attacked me.
“You worthless little shit!” she screamed, smacking me in the face with something heavy and then wrapping her hands around my throat, choking me out. “I should have aborted you when the stick turned pink! What have you done for me? You haven’t helped bring your father around, and now you dare to steal my johns?”
I blacked out. I assumed her client came to my rescue, as I vaguely remember someone removing her hands from my neck.
I woke in a hospital with no idea how I’d arrived.
I was in and out of consciousness for a while, but at one point, I was visited by police. They informed me that no one could explain how I got there. Cameras didn’t show who left me there, only a crowd surge that parted to reveal me on the floor. I had one of those little kid IDs with my address, which had allowed them to pay my mom a visit.