Girls Who Bite

by Delilah Devlin

  She grinned up at me. “Like that?”

  I shook my head, a smile lifting my lips. “Need you ask?” I raised her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Get up.”

  Her auburn brows rose. “Are you angry?”

  I rose along with her. “No. But we aren’t finished.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I drew her closer until our breasts touched, then I kissed her, my mouth covering her lips, my tongue pushing past her teeth to taste the minty freshness of her tongue. I tugged her hand, drawing her down to the warmth and thickness of the Persian rug covering the wood flooring.

  Molly lay down beside me, her body molding into mine.

  My fingers trailed along the curve of her breast. I took one into my mouth, sucking hard, nipping at the pointed tip. My hands skimmed lower, following the contours of her waist and hips, sliding down to the apex of her thighs. The soft curls over her pussy sprang back as I feathered my fingers through them. I smiled at the color, every bit as red as the hair on Molly’s head.

  “You’re beautiful.” I stroked her clit. “You should be out dating someone who would make you happy for the rest of your life.”

  “You make me happy.” She kissed me fiercely. “I don’t have forever. I want to spend my time with you. What is it going to take to make you see that?” Her voice caught on a sob, and she buried her face in my neck.

  My hand rose to push the hair out of her face. “You have me for now. I just worry that you could find someone better to fill your life.”

  “You are all I need.”

  “You have me.” I draped her leg over mine and gathered her close. I sought to please her as she’d pleased me, my fingers working their way across smooth skin, so soft and firm, to the curly mass of hair hiding her feminine core. Sliding two fingers between her folds, I found her clit and teased it until she cried out.

  Her fingernails dug into my arms.

  Scooting lower, I took one of her breasts into my mouth while my fingers dipped inside her, one, then two and three, her entrance damp and ready for more than I could give her.

  Her fingers curled around mine and pressed me deeper.

  “I can’t do what a man does.”

  “I don’t need a man, Katherine. I need you.”

  Gently, I rolled her to her back. “Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get something.”

  “Hurry.”

  I dove into my bedroom, rummaging through my nightstand, searching for the vibrating dildo I’d purchased on impulse a year ago. I’d been too embarrassed to use it, and it had remained in the box until now.

  When I returned to the living room, I held up the shiny silver toy.

  Molly laughed. “I’d never pictured you as the owner of one of those.”

  Suddenly unsure, I frowned. “Is it not appropriate?”

  “Oh, sweetie, it’s more than appropriate.” Molly rolled to her side and patted the floor. “Come on, I’ll show you how to use it.”

  Butterflies fluttered in my belly as I strode naked toward Molly. She lay like a siren tempting me to the edge of a cliff, and I went willingly, handing her the device.

  She twisted the bottom and the shaft hummed to life.

  My pussy quivered in anticipation, but I wanted Molly to be first; the idea of pleasuring her was more tantalizing than that of pleasing myself. I held out my hand. “Let me.”

  She grinned giving me the dildo. I held it vibrating in my hand, the metal hard and cool against my fingers.

  Again, Molly patted the floor beside her. “I’m ready, are you?”

  I dropped to my knees and reached out to trail the shaft down over her belly and lower.

  Molly rolled to her back, her flat stomach quivering. “Lower. Lubricate the dick. Get it good and wet.”

  With my empty hand leading the way, I dipped my fingers into her pussy, coating them in her juices and rubbing them over the silvery prick. “Like that?”

  “Oh, yes, now use it quickly before it dries.”

  I climbed between her legs, spreading her knees wide.

  Her entrance glistened. Her fingers trailed in the moisture seeping out.

  Before I plunged the dildo into her, I wanted to taste her like she’d tasted me. I wanted my tongue to flicker over her clit and make her writhe with passion.

  Parting her folds, I bent and flicked the little nubbin with my tongue.

  Molly’s ass rose off the floor, urging me to take more.

  I sucked her clit into my mouth and bit down gently, swirling and teasing it with my tongue.

  Her feet digging into the rug, Molly moaned. “Fuck me with the cock. Fuck me now.”

  The words should have made me, with my nineteenth-century upbringing, cringe. Instead, they made my nipples pucker tighter and my pussy drip. I positioned the slick metal cock at her entrance.

  “Oh, yes, now. Ram it into me. Fuck me fast,” Molly said.

  Slowly, gently, I thrust the dildo into her pussy, deeper and deeper until only my fingers held the end.

  Molly pushed up off the carpet, her eyes squeezed tight, her body rigid. “Faster. Fuck me faster.”

  I obliged with one hand, my other going to her clit, the rhythm of my strokes in unison. The faster I thrust, the more frenzied Mollie’s movements and breathing became.

  At last, she screamed out my name, her ass levered off the ground, her body poker straight. Then she fell back to earth, her face flushed, a smile curving her pretty lips.

  I held the dildo inside her, the fingers of my other hand parting her folds. I bent to suck her clit into my mouth for one final taste—warm, musky, heady. Then I removed the dildo, laying it to the side.

  “That was great.” Molly sighed, lying back against the rug, her arm draped over her face.

  As she lay there, I ran my finger along her thigh, across her pelvis and up to the tip of her full, rounded nipple. The nipple puckered, jutting out peachy-pink and taut.

  I tweaked the tip between my thumb and forefinger.

  Molly’s body tensed. A grimace crossed her face.

  My hand jerked away. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No, no.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and bent double, her face and lips blanching. “I get headaches at the most annoying moments.”

  “Want me to get you something?” I rose, concerned. I’d never seen Molly in this much pain. She always seemed to be happy and carefree.

  Molly lay there, her fingers pressing her temples so tightly her knuckles turned white. “No. I’m fine.” She sat up and smiled, her teeth clenched, the smile never quite reaching her eyes.

  “Maybe you should lie down a little longer.” I grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and pushed it behind her.

  “No, I have a party to go to at the Brewery, tonight.” She lurched to her feet and swayed, reaching out to steady herself.

  I grabbed her arm. “I don’t think you should go out. You’re face is pale. You don’t look well.”

  “I’m fine. I have to go to the party. It’s the last time I’ll see J.J. and the Jolly Rogers play.”

  “What are you talking about? They come back every three months. You’ll have a chance to see them then. Stay here. Relax and let me take care of you.”

  “No.” Molly scrambled around the living room gathering her bra and panties. “I told you, no strings attached. I don’t want any strings, no emotions. Nothing, just the sex. Thanks, by the way. It was better than I could have imagined.” She grabbed her two dresses and ran for the door, her feet stumbling as she neared.

  “Molly, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Katherine. I’m fine.” Her fingers gripped the door handle and she paused, her shoulders tensing, her back hunching over.

  When I ran to her, she pushed me away. “No. Don’t pity me. I want you to love me as I am now. I can’t stand pity.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” She yanked the door open and paused.
Turning back toward me, she cupped my cheek and kissed me. “Don’t get involved with me. It won’t last.”

  After she’d gone, I stood in the doorway wondering what I’d done wrong.

  That had been over an hour ago. Now I stood with my back to the bar, scanning the Brewery for Molly.

  “You’re Molly’s friend, right?” The bartender placed my glass of wine on the bar.

  “Yes. Have you seen her?”

  He nodded to the dance floor. “She’s been dancing since she got here. Such a shame that one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The brain tumor.”

  My head reeled and I sank onto a bar stool.

  “You didn’t know?” The bartender stared across at Molly. “The doc gave her two months to live.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Wow, she should have been the one to break it to you.” The man touched my arm. “I’m sorry.”

  I sat for a long time staring at the beautiful, vibrant redhead, gyrating around the floor like there was no tomorrow. For her, there would be none—for me, an endless procession of tomorrows. Molly had lived only twenty-five years. I’d lived more than two hundred. She was just beginning her life—I was tired of mine. I wanted to grow old and die. Molly wanted to live.

  I stood, walked across the floor, knowing exactly what had to happen, should Molly choose. As if on cue, the music ended and the band went on break. Molly stood out in the middle of the floor as everyone else filtered back to their tables and drinks. Someone played a soft lilting song on the jukebox.

  I gathered Molly in my arms and swayed with her to the music. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want your pity, just your love.”

  “Honey, you have my love.” I hugged her closer, my eyes filling with tears.

  “I wanted you in my life, to grow old with and love for a very long time. But I don’t have that long.”

  “You could, if you choose.”

  Molly shook her head. “The doctor gives me two months. How can I pack a lifetime in two months?”

  “I know how you can live longer.”

  “You do?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded. “With my life.”

  “I can give you more time in your life, if you let me.”

  Light from the disco globe shone in her eyes. “How?”

  “Just one bite.” I ran a finger along her neck, stopping at the base of her throat where her carotid artery beat strong.

  Molly leaned back in my arms. “Huh?”

  “It’s a gift, kind of like the myths of the vampire, but not.”

  “Vampires aren’t real.”

  “No, they aren’t, but I am and it will only take one bite from me and you’ll be cured.”

  “I’ve never seen you drink blood.”

  “I’m not a vampire, and you won’t be either. You won’t crave blood or have to stay out of daylight. But you will live forever or until you decide to pass the gift to the next woman.” I cupped her cheek. “Only one woman at a time can carry the gift.”

  “What gift is this?”

  “A gift as old as Adam, the gift of Lilith.” I chuckled. “Don’t look so doubtful. I’m over two hundred years old.”

  “What?” She tried to pull free of my arms.

  I gently hugged her to me, swaying to the music. “The question is, do you want to live?”

  “Yes.” She sagged against me, the music the only sound for several moments. “I want to live with you forever, Katherine.”

  I stopped moving. “That can’t be. When I pass the gift of Lilith to you, you will become immortal and I will grow old and die.”

  “But I don’t want you to die. What good would it be for me to be immortal without you?”

  “I’ve had a long life, you haven’t. You have much more to experience—I’ve had enough. I want to grow old and die. Please, let me give you this gift. I want you to have it.”

  “But—”

  “I ask again. Do you want to live?”

  She stared into my eyes, her own filling with tears. “Yes.”

  I smiled and folded her into my arms. “Then dance with me.”

  As we moved around the floor, Molly relaxed in my arms and I spoke of the women who’d come before us, of the memories that would soon be Molly’s. I knew I’d found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, someone who would understand me and stand by me as I grew old. As the music slowed, I sank my teeth into Molly’s neck, our lives became intertwined, our pasts joined.

  A new song started. Molly looked up and smiled, and I knew she would be all right. I’d given her the gift of Lilith, and in return, she’d given me the gift of her love.

  MADELINE

  A. E. Grace

  I first met Madeline when I was twelve years old. It was at a charity book fair my mother had organized in the summer of 2003, a particularly humid season to be stumbling about a church hall with crates of secondhand paperbacks, in what was a particularly overcrowded village.

  Breezing by with an armful of hardback Stephen Kings, my mother had craned her neck and called, “Find Stella and see if she needs a hand or something, will you? You’re hanging about like an infant, Lil.”

  Lil was, as you might’ve guessed, short for Lilly; I’d never liked that name. A Lilly is a beautiful flower, and, like the frocks my mother had dressed me in as a preteen, the name never seemed to suit me.

  The shortened version, Lil, allowed me to assume a kind of non-gender-specific status amongst my peers, and I liked the feel of it very much. It was something that would later aid me in “finding myself,” as some people and teachers liked to call it, and made kissing Madeline as a teenager seem like less of an alien thing, despite what the other girls thought of it.

  Fanning myself with one of the Kidson notebooks my mother liked so much, I waded through the wandering elderly church people, and found my mother’s friend Stella peeling plastic wrap off of various goodies she’d made for the occasion, the light pouring in from the bay window to form a halo-effect around her puff of auburn hair.

  Crouched beneath the table, sucking on the oval-shaped remnants of a lollipop, was Madeline. My heart had given its first surge in the presence of a female, as I looked in awe at her long legs and tumbling red hair, approaching her with a slowing pace to allow myself more viewing time. Of course, subsequent to this I had to think of something to say to her too, a nerve-wracking task in itself.

  Stella exhaled a gruff breath of air and smoothed down the front of her blouse. Seeing me, she grinned and ushered me over with a flap of her delicate, manicured hands. “Lilly!” she beamed, pacing round to my side of the stall, blissfully unaware of the potentially fatal mistake she’d made addressing me by my full name.

  “Been helping mum, have we?” Before I’d parted my lips to respond, she turned and called to Madeline, who unfolded her spiderlike limbs and glided dutifully to stand by her mother. “This is my daughter, Maddy; you won’t have met her before. She’s back from boarding school,” Stella breathed, with an air of pride about her raspy, whispering voice.

  Nodding to Madeline, I felt myself reddening from the neck up. She acknowledged me with her catlike eyes, green-yellow in the haze of the spore-filled hall. My own eyes were so fixed upon her face that I could count each freckle dotted about her nose.

  She stood a good foot taller than I, and I remember the distancing remaining that way until we parted at seventeen years old, after what I now refer to as our “accident.”

  Folding her thin arms, she said, “Fancy a walk? It’s bloody boring in here, ain’t it?” And, giddy at the knees and feeling as though my thundering heart would create an echo against the stony walls, I followed her into the glorious sunshine outside.

  As I paced the concrete outside a greasy café, a full twenty years since we’d last spoken, my heart thundered once again in the fashion that Madeline had first engendered. The night was chilled and still,
ominously lacking any police sirens or screams from streets farther away. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a glistening hip flask and took a glug. The blood, more popularly referred to as the Red Stuff on TV commercials, had remained salty and warm in the snug of my trouser leg.

  I replayed the scene of our first meeting bitterly in my mind, aching not for the sight of Madeline, but for the golden sunlight that I was now deprived of, and the church of a town, our hometown, that we had fled from after our accident occurred. I often wondered about our mothers, picturing them fretting in each other’s living rooms, calling the police stations, the hospitals; crying: Where have our daughters gone?

  Mid-pace, I sensed a change in the atmosphere, a shift, and I knew Madeline had arrived. Moistening my lips with my thin, pointed tongue, I tasted her in every pore. Without having any mentor throughout my adjustment period for my condition, I’d come to recognize certain changes and connections that occurred as a result of becoming—and I hated the word—a vampire.

  Once you’ve mated with a fellow vampire, it seemed, the pair created a bond that allowed them to sense each other’s taste, or scent; I felt Madeline’s presence as if she were nestled in my mouth.

  “Lil?” she whispered. Her voice enveloped me like a velvet curtain, and I shuddered.

  Biting my lip, I turned to face her, and ran an anxious hand through my crop of short, mousy brown hair. The sight of her, standing like a delicate porcelain doll, caused my breath to catch in my throat.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” I croaked eventually, clearing my throat. I pocketed my hands and scuffed my boot on the pavement, suddenly searching for something to look at, anything but her.

  Still, a glance was enough; she wore a silk bell-sleeved dress, the color of coal, which stopped just short of her milky knees. A delicate line of cleavage peeked between the sweetheart-shaped cloth, appearing like the entwined necks of two swans. On her feet, she wore a pair of suede Mary Janes in deep red.

  “I was worried about the same thing,” she replied, smiling meekly. Her almond-shaped eyes glistened in the darkness like shards of reflective glass. “I’m sorry I left it so late.”