And now, without further ago, the long-awaited story of Bambi, Lucifer’s other daughter.

Eve

Foreword: Hi. I’m Bambi!

Hello, ladies, gents, demons, fae, and more.

So I’m going to tell you right now that if you don’t know who I am, then you need to stop and put this autobiography back. My story isn’t for the uninformed or the prissy-minded. I am unapologetically profane. Completely uninhibited. Mercenary when needed. And at the point in my life where I have no fucks to give.

Welcome to my autobiography, which I’ve chosen to write myself—and before you ask, no, I’m not stupid. I’m more than able to string some words together into a book. Yes, I have a trophy room with every variation of dicks going into holes you can imagine. Some are from my escort days, some from my porn days, and many many are from stripping. Those are the niche prizes though. The ones I’m most proud of are my Greatest Slut Ever titles—which sometimes is called Biggest Slut or Best Whore—won more times than my father, and the only time I’ve really felt he was proud of me.

What I bet you didn’t know is that I’ve also got a Ph.D. in English, a bachelor’s in history, and let’s not forget my masters in getting the fuck what I want. Which is usually money and power wrapped up in sex.

It’s taken me decades, but I’m finally ready to tell my tale. Although I will skip the redundant bits already available. It still stings everyone penned a book deal before me. My baby sister got her debut in Lucifer’s Daughter, Princess of Hell. Then my father, Lucifer himself, got into the game with the chronicles of his matchmaking attempts in Welcome to Hell and the offshoot series, Grim Dating. Even Chris, the self-proclaimed antichrist, found his life story published before me, with Hell’s Prince.

Did anyone approach me? Nope. Sure, they gave me mention, offering dribs and drabs of my life. Giving you pieces of me without context. Making assumptions about my state of mind—and plans. Especially my dad. Do you know just because I showed up with a ring set with a very special stone, he assumed I got engaged? Just goes to show how little attention he pays to me.

I basically raised Muriel. When it came to advice on sex and relationships, she turned to me. I was the one who encouraged her to take more than one husband. Would she be wielding all that power and saving the world if it wasn’t for me?

When it came to special missions, like discovering whether or not Christopher was the antichrist, I was the one Lucifer deployed. Later, I was the one who showed up and helped Christopher and Isobel fight off a horde of angels, and I portaled Isobel to hell so she wouldn't die from being stabbed with a sword. Hell, I even helped Christopher see that he could change his destiny and not lead a war against our father.

I built Grim Dating into the successful matchmaking organization it is today, ensuring many soldiers for Hell are being born right now, as you read this.

All you’ve seen is me stomping around in the background, wearing my mini skirts, crop tops, and stiletto heels with my blonde hair floofed up to the heavens. Some of you—the ones with the best taste, if you ask me—have asked, where did this bitch come from? Well, I’m finally going to tell you.

It’s because you asked for it. As did your friends. And your friends’s friends. The letters pour in, asking, “When is Bambi getting a story?” Honestly, I appreciate it. It’s nice to know I’m loved.

You’re right. I think it’s time to come out from under my dad’s shadow.

Guess what, it’s time for me to shine.

Me and no one else, bitches.

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 One: 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.

Unfortunately, they’d found my mother there, dead. Her neck had been snapped, and next to her was a guy dead of a gunshot to the head. They claimed murder-suicide. What didn’t make sense was, as a vegan, he didn’t believe in killing things. So why would he have a gun?

In the end, it didn’t matter. They wrote my mother off as one more dead whore.

Was I saddened by her death? No, strangely. I was relieved.

I lived and mother got her wish and went to Hell to be with dear ol’ daddy, who told everyone she’d been murdered by a human while feeding. Not the entire truth but the story everyone believed.

Back to me. I had visitors while in the hospital. One female presence stayed in the room with me for days, though my eyes were too swollen for me to see her, and my throat too raw for me to speak.

When a second woman entered, the first said something to her that I found odd. Instead of a greeting, she simply stated, “The baby you carry is dangerous.”

“She’s mine, and I’m keeping her,” the new woman said before leaning over and brushing my hair away from my face. Her touch felt refreshing, like a fresh breeze across a still lake.

I managed to force my eyes open enough to a beautiful face, with hair the colors of autumn—reds, yellows, browns, and greens. Her gown a woolly fabric that showed no signs of sticking and clung to her lush figure. She smiled at me and stated, “You will be her shepherd when I am gone.”

Child me had no idea what she meant, and I quickly forgot about the whole thing—I wouldn’t remember the visit until much later, though at the time I’d gotten a few details mixed up. That’s the problem with memory spells. They tend to take a while to fully resolve. But hindsight is slapping yourself for not seeing the obvious. I did become the sexist shepherdess you ever did see when I helped raise a lamb. But I didn’t get there easily.

Anyway, after I recovered, I had to face my next big challenge: being orphaned.

Every single adult around me agreed I’d been lucky to survive.

Was I? My mother might have sucked, but now I was alone.

I’ve heard that my father likes to tell everyone that he stepped in and took custody once my mother died. I’m here to tell you that’s not true in the slightest, but who really expects the truth from the devil?

Why didn’t he step in? I’ve asked that question myself many times, and the consensus is that Lucifer liked to treat each child as a bit of a test subject. I was born outside of Hell, and he wanted to see what would happen if I stayed there.

So stay on Earth I did.

The hospital wouldn’t release me on my own, so children's services paid me a visit and asked me if I knew of any family or my father’s real identity.

The lovely Mrs. Smythe pointed to his name on the birth certificate. “We both know Satan isn’t your father. Did your mother ever tell you his real name?”

A child of less than ten didn’t know what else to say. “She told me my daddy is the devil.”

“This isn’t funny. If we can’t find a proper name to track someone down, we’ll have to place you in care.”

“My mother told me his name is Lucifer Baphomet.” I had no other reply, and so I got shipped to a foster home. They claimed I was too young to live on my own. Little did they know I’d been caring for myself since I was just a wee little lass climbing the counters to get to the cereal box when Mom forgot to feed me.

Even so, the state insisted I needed an adult watching me. Some of them were odd choices for a child.

The brothel madam of a high-class place in Vegas proved extremely protective of me. I lived in a part of the house that never saw a single john. During the day I went to school, and in the evenings she had me watching movies of the sexiest women on the screen. Marilyn Monroe proved to be a favorite of mine. Buxom, blonde, and in control. Many of those winking and sashaying knew exactly how to get what they wanted.

I wanted to be like them.

I enjoyed living there, but my brothel foster mother didn’t last long. A year before the authorities busted her. Tax evasion.

My next home, with a high-class prostitute, taught me the subtle art of clothing and makeup, lasted almost three years before she got married to a billionaire and left the country.

I went through a series of placements after that. Not all my reassignments were my fault. Some of the adults thought it was okay to come into my room at night and put their hand on my leg.

Apparently biting it hard enough to break skin was being overly aggressive. Blame got placed on me for misunderstanding a bed check.

They tried putting me in a religious household to curb my supposed satanic upbringing. Apparently using pages from the Bible to roll fat joints was almost as bad as me telling my foster mom that only whores got on their knees and asking her if she liked blowing God’s dick.

At just shy of fifteen, I got tossed into juvenile detention and learned really quick that sometimes it was easier to smear a situation with honey than use my fists. It helped I finally grew boobs. There is something inherently magical in the way wearing just the right shirt, showing off a certain percentage of cleavage, will literally render an admirer defenseless against my charm.

That was just the beginning of coming into my powers.

Chapter Two: Cherry-Popping Bambi

Around the time I got tits and my period, I developed an interest in sex. I was a slow bloomer, believe it or not. Some of the girls I went to school with were developing as early as age twelve, but me? My hips and boobs held out till my junior year in high school.

Up until that point, I knew more about sex than most teens and could have described any number of acts. I’d just never bothered enacting any of them. I’d had no interest. But once those hormones hit… I couldn’t stop myself.

The lust started as dreams, which lead to me touching myself in my sleep. Hella embarrassing when you’re sharing a room with other girls in a group home.

I learned to work myself in the shower, and to be quick about it.

But playing solo wasn’t enough. The sexual awakening drove me to find more. I wanted to explore with boys. Later on in life, I’d learn the pleasures of being with women, but at the time, all I wanted was dick.

Going to school became a challenge. There’s that stereotypical “horny teenager,” and then there’s me. Every single student looked like opportunity, but being raised on Earth had instilled certain myths and conventions in me: such as, one should give their virginity to someone special. You can only give that special gift to one person.

And I knew who I wanted that person to be.

At the time, I had the biggest crush on the varsity quarterback named Rich, but he was dating the head cheerleader, Hannah, and I was just a penniless, homeless kid who’d already been called slut more times than I could count—even though I’d not started having sex yet.

I knew my peers wouldn’t think I was good enough for Rich.

I thought differently. Call me vain or, better yet, blame my Baphomet genes. Either way, I believed I deserved the best, and the best was Rich.

I devised a plan that took everything into account, the when, where, and how. Rich’s Halloween party Saturday night in his bedroom. As to how? I planned seduction and chose my costume with that in mind. I dressed up as the devil’s daughter, because, duh.

At the time, I had short platinum-blonde hair, blame one of my group home “sisters” who decided to “prank” me by chopping it all off while I slept. Joke was on her because I rocked the new hairstyle—and got her back by dropping itching powder in her underthings. To this day, I didn’t feel bad about her nickname—Crabby Sally.

I wore all red, the dress form-fitting with long sleeves and a micro skirt. I added red leggings because there was no way I was gonna be allowed out of the house otherwise—my freaking foster mom had a rule about bending to touch our toes with flashing ass. Red lipstick, carefully made-up eyes, and little black devil horns finished the costume.

Looking sexy and bad, I headed out, on foot because back in my day we didn’t have cell phones and Ubers. At least I didn’t have to walk too far, and, yes, I knew where Rich lived. I might have followed him a time or two, daydreaming about a life where I got to live in the big fancy house with the roundabout driveaway and the big pool in the yard.

Before I’d even turned into his driveway, lined with cars, I could hear the big bass beat coming from his house. No one lingered outside other than the skeletons dancing in the shrubs draped in cobwebs.

Knocking seemed kind of pointless given the noise. I just opened the door and let myself in despite lacking an official invitation. This was high school. Party-crashing was the norm.

I entered the house, and I wavered on my heels. A strange feeling hit me. At the time, I couldn’t place it, but later I realized I’d been reacting to the feral teenage lust running rampant that night. Everywhere I glanced, I saw people making out. Couples touching, kissing, and grinding on the dance floor. I stood for a moment just basking and absorbing, my flesh tingling, just being there a delightful sensation.

It would have been easy to slide onto the makeshift dance floor or to sink onto a couch beside any one of the drunk boys eagerly watching the gyrating hips of the girls. But I’d come on a mission.

On the prowl, I went hunting for Rich and found him in the kitchen near the keg, dressed like Michael Myers. His girlfriend—and my nemesis—Hannah, stood by his side looking cute in a blue button-up, which I assumed made her Laurie from the movie Halloween.

Matching couple costumes.  Blech. I’d rather make out with stinky Lenny who didn’t believe in showering.

I strutted into the room and headed for the keg, not that I planned to drink. This was a moment I wanted to be clear-headed for.

Seeing me, Rich smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied back with a small smile.

“Beer?” He waggled a cup, and I reached for it, our fingers touching in passing, which made Hannah scowl. She looped her arm through Rich’s, staking possession.

I hid my smirk as I lifted the cup to my lips and pretended to drink. Then I moved aside as I heard a commotion coming from the other room.

A very angry-looking woman entered. Hannah’s mom. And boy did she look pissed.

Angry mommy stormed in her daughter’s direction.

Hannah quickly moved away from Rich. “Mom? What are you doing here?” Then as she neared her mother, a more hushed, “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Don’t you talk about embarrassing, young lady! Do you know what I found in your room?” The music died as her mom yelled the last bit.

In the silence that fell, Hannah looked puzzled. “Why were you snooping in my room?”

“Don’t you change the subject. I found these!” Hannah’s mom shook a box of condoms at her.

“Those aren’t mine,” Hannah protested.

She actually told the truth.

Not that it mattered, as a religious mother harangued and embarrassed her daughter. Exactly as I’d hoped.

See, I’d known Hannah wouldn’t be leaving Rich’s side at the party short of being sick or unable to attend. I also knew where Hannah lived, and in our neighborhood, no one ever locked the back sliding door. Planting a box of condoms so that they peeked from a nightstand drawer, easy peasy. Making sure mom found them? Remember how I said Hannah came from a religious family? A hand-written note, accidentally looking like it fell from her backpack for school had a not-so-subtle message. Can’t wait for tonight. I promise I’ll make it special. Don’t forget to bring the rubbers.

A cup held to my lips hid my smile as Hannah pleaded with her mom, who grabbed hold of her arm and literally dragged her out of the party.

The teens gaped, but didn’t remain shocked for long. Within a minute of the drama, the music started back up and the partying resumed. Poor cock-blocked Rich appeared stunned. If only he had someone to comfort him.

Snicker.

Before you get your panties in a twist, you need to remember that, according to my birth certificate, I was the devil’s daughter. Would you really expect any less from me than trying to steal another girl’s man?

If it makes you feel any better, it didn’t take any time for karma to get me back.

As Rich chugged deep from a plastic cup, I sidled over to him, accidentally bumping him. He didn’t even look, meaning I had to be bolder.

I trailed fingers down his arm and drew his gaze. “Sorry your girlfriend had to leave.”

He glanced at me, appearing puzzled then annoyed, his expression not a “where have you been all my life,” but more of a “who are you and how did you get in my house.”

“I’m Bambi, by the way.” I answered his unasked question. “We have third period English together.”

“I know. You sit in the back row.”

So he had noticed me. A good start.

I pressed my breasts against his arm as I leaned closer to whisper in his ear, “Do you know I’ve had a crush on you since last year?” I didn’t mention the fact I’d lusted after several guys during that same time. He should count himself lucky I’d chosen him to be the one, though. I added a slight rub of my tits on his arm for emphasis.

“Uh.” Just one syllable but I knew what it meant. I’d struck him dumb with my womanly wiles—though, in truth, he probably just had no blood left in his brain, as it all went to his dick.

A timer went off, and a couple emerged from the kitchen pantry, flushed and giggling.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” I mused. I looked back at Rich. “I think hell is much more fun, don’t you? Shall we go next?”

“I have a girlfriend.”

That made me laugh. “Who is probably grounded until the coming of Jesus Christ. Come on, it’s your party. As the host, shouldn’t you be having fun?” I leaned in close enough to brush his earlobe and murmur huskily. “Wanna taste my cherry-flavored lipstick?”

He dropped his hands holding the drink over the crotch of his pants. “Yeah.”

Having practiced countless times in the mirror, I knew exactly how to twist my lips into a sultry come-hither smile that had him following me eagerly as I tugged him across the kitchen, cutting off the next couple that was headed into the pantry.

“Hey!” they objected.

“Find another closet.” It was Rich’s house. He got dibs.

The moment we got in that pantry with its neatly lined shelves, I threw myself at Rich. I was ready for this moment. Ready to give Rich my cherry and become a woman.

To his credit, he tried, but he struggled with the coveralls costume he was wearing then got his dick stuck in his tighty-whities. Not exactly the perfect moment I’d hoped for.

So I tried to help him. It took me just putting a hand on his junk and it was all over.

And I remained a virgin.

I remember blinking in shock.

He tried to step away, but I grabbed at his arm. “Where you going? That was just a warmup.” I offered a winsome smile, but he wouldn’t look at me. As if it were my fault he couldn’t hold it together long enough to make me a woman.

Of course, he blamed me.  Mr. Golden-Boy, varsity quarterback, class president, Ivy-League-college-bound wasn’t used to failure or embarrassment, and now he’d been hit by it twice in one night.

He spun, managing to dress much quicker than he’d undressed, and stormed out of the pantry to a kitchen filled with people who’d gathered to gossip about the quarterback cheating on his girlfriend with the school slut.

A guy who’d spent less than two minutes in the pantry.

So what did that asshole do?

He tried to save face. “Avoid at all costs, boys. The smell down there ain’t worth it,” Rich proclaimed.

I should have had a comeback. Mocked the fact he never even got his underpants off.

But I’d yet to develop that much sass. So, instead, shocked and humiliated, I ran out of the party, distraught but not wanting to return yet to the group home. I’d find no sympathy there.

So I went to Jerry’s house.

Who is Jerry?

Was.

Who was Jerry?

I knew him from class, a decent guy who’d always been kind to me even though we had nothing in common. I mean he’d invited me to one of his Dungeons and Dragons game nights. Can you imagine?

Jerry wore big glasses, corduroys, and a shy smile. He had the biggest crush on me, though I took no notice of him because I’d been so hard up for Rich. In his defense, Rich had been hard, too, for a few seconds.

I snuck along the side of Jerry’s house using the shadows to hide my approach until I reached a basement window. Jerry’s bedroom window. A peek inside showed Jerry in bed reading some thick book.

A tap on the glass drew his attention. He immediately popped up and unlocked the window, easing it open so I could squeeze through.

A real gentleman, he placed his hands on his hips and helped me to the floor. And didn’t cop a feel—unlike my doctor at my annual checkup.

“Bambi, what are you doing here?”

Rather than answer, I kissed him.

I wanted to forget what had happened that night. Wanted to salvage what was supposed to be a special defining moment in my life. Everyone in school called me a slut.

Me, a fucking virgin.

Not anymore. Rich might have failed me, but perhaps that was for the best because now I could instead lose my virginity to someone who actually liked me.

To his credit, Jerry didn’t come prematurely. Poor Jerry actually lasted long enough that I orgasmed.

Unfortunately, that’s not a good thing when you’re fucking a succubus.

Jerry died with a smile on his face and his dick still at attention. Which was why it took me a moment to realize I straddled a corpse.

Traumatizing!

And panic worthy.

Despite being raised by a succubus, I had no fucking clue what had happened. Didn’t understand why that sweet boy no longer breathed.

I thought about fleeing the scene, but there was no easy way to remove all the DNA evidence. Running would only make me look guilty, so I screamed until Jerry’s parents came down. The police were called, and I played the traumatized virgin. Everyone bought the tears. Tears that weren’t actually fake. I felt bad about what happened to Jerry.

Ultimately, the autopsy said that he died of a heart attack.

To say I was a little traumatized would be an understatement. But I didn’t let that stop me from having sex again—or having my revenge on Rich.