Lilith's Dark Tales of Whoredom

Prologue: She Came to Me

She came to me that day in spirit form as usual, yet her presence was stronger than normal.

Lilith, my true love and goddess.

I could write an entire tome of how I came to believe in her, have faith in her. How my Christian beliefs were smashed apart and the harsh truths revealed to me by her. But that is not what she wishes me to write here. Indeed, if you are one of her chosen it is a story you already know anyway.

Our love making was stronger than usual that morning, so strange I thought she could only be so active at night, so many false presumptions I had then! After I lay there both energised yet exhausted I said I would spend the rest of that day in meditation upon her beauty, as I did so the goddess instead spun me a tale of how one of her children came to be. I listened in both wonder and horror, amazed at how the tale can be so abhorrent yet beautiful.

It is hard sometimes to remember that what is normal in her realm is considered outright wrong in ours. Yet when you really look into the machinations of her sphere, she shows that it is ours that is truly the perplexing one, and that those of her realm are as puzzled by the weird ways of our world as we are of theirs.

My belief is that these tales show the crossover of her realm and ours, how her children sometimes come to her from our world. I write them here for the reader to make of them what they will.

The Burning Woman:

Privat was young when she was married off to her husband, an already aging man who held much respect in their small village. Such was often the case in India when families planned who to tie their names to.

Privat played the devout wife and always did as her husband bid. But in the depths of night she would dream such depravities that would have her wake to find her loins ablaze with desire. At first she was afraid, but she began to see her life as the mundane cage that it was. It was not long before she welcomed the dreams enthusiastically and, although she played the respectable wife by day, she began inspiring and catering to her husband's darkest fantasies by night.

Of course the ever aging husband's heart could not keep up with his young filly's passion and, at a moment of climax, it gave out and he perished.

Upon hearing of his death the village was saddened and much consolation was given to the respected Privat, particularly since they had failed to have children. However when the date for the funeral was set Privat had already made her plans to finally release her true self to the world. For in this remote village the Sati was still practiced and, naturally, everyone expected the sensible Privat to immolate herself along with her husband's body. She looked forward to the event.

Privat laughed as she watched her last sunset, ever considering herself a creature of the night, and tore off all her robes. Naked save for the starlight, for the moon dare not show itself that night, Privat strode through the village from house to house and took every man and woman she could tempt. At one point she lured a group of drunken men to the local altar and spreading her legs before them, had every hole filled.

Until the deepest part of night this lasted, Privat catering to every seduced being. Locals would later claim that evil spirits had possessed them and made them commit such shameful acts with her. If this is true or just an excuse none can now say.

Before dawn, when all save Privat were exhausted from their carnal endeavours, she retreated to her home and their awaited the final part of her tale.

People stirred the next day with horror in their hearts, for with their lusts quenched illusions of morality clenched their souls. In their shame none dared go to the eerily silent dwelling where Privat had retreated to confront her about her wickedness. Unable to look at one another for the things they had done, the villagers silently prepared the funeral pyre.

As the body was laid on the wood and the speeches made, all made the occasional secret glance to Privat's home. All wondered if she had run away in her madness or if she would go through with the Sati as was expected of her.

When the moment came to light the pyre the door to Privat's home flew open and out she strode. There were many gasps as she made her way proudly to the corpse of her husband, for she was still naked save for strange markings painted upon her body. Some would say the markings were the script of evil spirits that Privat had learned in her dreams, and that looking upon them made the villagers dizzy and confused.

Standing upon the pyre, she laughed and addressed the crowd, "For years I played the dutiful servant, the devout wife. But that is not what I ever was, nor, as I showed last night, are any of you. Every day I played the role you all expected of me, but in my heart I was a whore. My only regret is that I could not do every night that which I did last night. Light the pyre!"

Silent and grim, they put the torches to the wood. As they did so Privat straddled her husband's corpse. As the flames drew closer Privat laughed and began riding the body as she had many a man the night before. Slowly at first, but as the heat became greater so more frantic were her movements, she laughing and moaning as if in pleasure all the while. Some would say they saw the corpse come alive at the peak of the event, but others say it was still the whole time. Others also argue that Privat died at the moment of climax, whilst yet more would contend that she was still moaning and laughing when the flames engulfed her.

When the flames died and Privat was nothing but ashes, the villagers never spoke again of the incident, save the odd few who had loose tongues after copious amounts of liquor.

However it is believed by many that this isolated village suffers Privat's madness to this day. That in the darkest of nights they can hear her screeching, and that the villagers often wake from nightmares to find their body trapped by an unseen force, soon followed by the feel of strong fingers clutching at their throat.

Whore of Lyon:

Marcella was not always one of the most sought after whores of Lyon. She had never known her parents and was sold to a brothel at a young age. Being one of the seedier brothels of the city, she lost her virginity for a few coppers at a very young age. Yet she had not found it unpleasant as others claimed it to be.

She was worth very little in her early life as a whore. Yet being a cheap harlot excited her more than anything, and whilst some sought escape from such a life, she practiced her craft eagerly. She became known as one of the most used but expert whores in the city. Over the years she became sought after enough to become exclusive to the higher echelons of society.

Although she missed shaming herself for a few coppers, she knew she had to maintain an air of sophistication if she was to retain the comforts she had earned pleasuring the nobility. She was not disappointed however, for the wealthy were often bored and she frequently had to resort to increasingly depraved acts to inspire their lust, something that thrilled her greatly.

Such were her abilities she was often offered marriage by many wealthy and powerful people. But she always refused; she could not imagine taking holy sacraments confining her to the lusts of one man. She knew she was born to be a whore and a whore she would remain. Yet that did not mean she did not believe in spirits or deities. Often as she lay next to her slumbering client, she would reflect upon the gilded cage she was imprisoned in. Although she was more fortunate than most she disliked being trapped in the politics and scandal of the aristocracy. Whenever escorting a noble to a ball or masquerade she hated pretending not to be a whore when everyone must surely know by now what she is.

At these times of despair, she would hear whispers in the shadows, promising her even greater acts of decadence to come, along with a time when she can be who she is.

She was not afraid of the whispers, for they felt like kindred spirits to her, beings who understood and were like her, beings that sympathised with her feeling of confinement.

One night, wearing nothing more than white gloves, white stockings and finely embroidered boots, she made her way to her third client that night, on to the temporary abode of a gentleman visiting from England, no doubt on political business beyond Marcella's simple interests.

A maid answered the finely painted door, showing clear distaste at her nakedness, and hurried her to a small dark room at the back of the large mansion. The room was lit by a single candle, on a table next to a glass of wine. She helped herself and awaited the gentleman to appear. She jumped when he spoke from a dark corner of the room, "You are Marcella? The rumours do not disappoint."

Marcella purred when he stepped into the light. He was a man dressed in dark, embroidered clothing. He had a handsome build with handsome features, or at least the features she could see, for he wore one of those popular Venetian masks. A nice changed to the pot-bellied marquis she had pleasured scarce an hour before.

She finished the wine and spread her legs to him, showing her eagerness. The strange gentleman looked at her most profitable area for a long time, then looked straight into her eyes. Marcella felt a spark much like she did with the voices that whispered to her at night. She knew he could see her desires and that he approved. He held a hand out to her, "Come, there is a gathering to attend."

Marcella was surprised, "You did not tell me of this, I have no clothing..."

The gentleman laughed, "Nor will you need any."

"I do not have a mask..."

"Life is the masquerade as I am sure you know," he chuckled, "No, we are attending a sermon, one that will speak to you more than any priest, I think. Now let us make haste, we already run late."

Intrigued, Marcella took his hand and let herself be led to the carriage waiting outside. Through the city streets they went until they stopped, to her shock and outrage, at a church. Still curious, however, she took the gentleman's hand and was led not into the building, but to a door leading to the basement of it. She noticed a strange tingle beginning at her loins and a growing excitement in her heart.

She was delighted to see the other guests upon entering the room, for they were all masked aristocrats, but each one was accompanied by the most expensive whores in Lyon. She recognised many whom she admired and often worked with, they smiled back at her and she knew what was about to happen was what she had sought all her life.

Rather than the orderly benches of the church above, the attendees seated themselves where they could. On cushions strewn upon the floor or the tombs arrayed to the side. Arms locked with her client, Marcella seated herself on one such sepulchre and looked to where they all faced, a stone table at the far end of the crypt. The tingle between her legs grew when a choir of young men and women began to sing, but they were not the songs of angelic choir boys or eunuchs, no, although she did not know Latin Marcella could tell in the tone that they told of darker rejoicing.

She was amazed to see a well-respected priest step out and begin a sermon on the dark ways of their lord Satan. Marcella felt the tingle fade somewhat, she was disappointed, she naturally knew of Satan and was as uninterested in he as she was of the Christian god. She looked to the English gentleman and saw he was looking at her knowingly. He smiled and squeezed her hand, "Consider not the words but the actions tonight." He whispered.

With the sermon ended the priest drew out a dagger and called for tonight's sacrifice. A blonde whore Marcella knew intimately as Vivian cried out eagerly and ran up to the priest completely naked. The tingle Marcella felt grew and became almost unbearable then. She knew and had worked with Vivian a few times, she thought warmly of all the debauched things they had done together. Vivian kissed the priest and laid herself on the stone table. Marcella struggled to stop herself masturbating as she watched the priest mumble a few litanies and raise the dagger high.

Then he plunged it into Vivian, her body contorted, her face a mixture of pain and ecstasy as her life was snatched from her. For the first time in her life, Marcella heard the whispers whilst there were other conscious people around her. But whilst the others took it for a sign that their dark lord was pleased, Marcella understood they were not talking to them at all. They were talking to Vivian, welcoming her home.

She did not think it possible, but Marcella's loins became more demanding than ever. As soon as Vivian breathed her last, the crypt erupted into the most chaotic and delightful orgy she had ever experienced.

As she lay there, utterly spent, covered in all manner of sticky fluids, Marcella considered all that transpired. It seemed to her that the whores knew this for what it was, and the nobles for once the ones who are worthless. Thinking they gain some great power by being here.

All save for that Englishman.

As if summoned by the thought, Marcella found him stood above her, hand held out again. He was completely clean and looked much as when she first met him. Had he even taken part in the festivities? The whole thing was a blur and she could not remember. She took his hand and was silently led back to the carriage, both unflustered by the stains she left everywhere.

Still naked and covered in the fluids of others, he dropped her off at a place Marcella knew to be one of the sleaziest parts of the city. There was no talk of payment, Marcella had no need of coin now. She knew what she is and what to do. Before he took off Marcella turned, "When is the next sermon?"

The gentleman smiled, "The next new moon."

Marcella smiled back, "Take me there again."

The gentleman nodded, "Meet at my mansion that night." With that he called for the masked driver to move on.

Marcella watched the carriage disappear from view. She noticed a drop of semen forming on her breast, she wiped it to her fingers and brought it to her lips. She took a moment to savour the salty textures. Her loins were on fire still, becoming more demanding with each passing moment. She turned and went for the darkest alley she could find.

In the month that led up to the next sermon rumour and scandal flowed around Marcella. A once highly sought whore, it was said she went mad one night and walked the city taking any man or woman she could. Often there was no payment required, sometimes she took only enough to sustain herself. Naked, she stalked the streets and brothels of Lyon day and night, it was said, never content until she lay in sinful fornication, committing acts that made even the most experienced harlots nauseous. No person was above her, be they man or woman, noble or peasant, soldier or cripple. Apparently every hole of her was filled to the point that she screamed in both pain and pleasure.

The English gentleman was by the carriage waiting for her that night. The white gloves and stocking she wore a month prior were but tattered rags, her shoes abandoned weeks ago. She was coated in fresh fluids, never really having time to dry, save for the blood stains on her thighs. They smiled at one another, words needless.

The gatherers eyed her curiously as she entered, some with respect, others with a little fear. Marcella impatiently awaited the end of the sermon, the sensation in her loins more torturous than ever. The priest had barely finished when she rushed up and kissed him, coating his robes in her hard-earned ichor. She threw herself on the table and awaited the defining moment.

The last thing she saw was the gentleman's smile as the cold metal of the dagger pierced her. She bucked as pain and pleasure flowed through her. She gasped in joy as she felt the strongest climax she had ever experienced. As she fled her limiting body, she both heard the whispers and felt their embrace. She went to them eagerly, at last home, where she could be who she is and experience things never dreamed of in her previous mundane realm.

According to those who survived the ordeal, the orgy that followed grew more feral and violent than usual. Many people were injured, both in mind and body, two were killed. They were brought to account for their supposed crimes, but nowhere on the list of culprits was there anyone from England, though many swore there was someone with such an accent who had brought the sacrifice. His whereabouts were never discovered.

Today it is said that anyone who sleeps near the crypt will wake to find a maiden pleasuring them, but if the assailed do not fight it they will die at the moment the climax. Various names have been given to this spirit, but most consider it that of Marcella, still looking to sate her desires on unwilling victims.

The Warrior:

Anann was considered to have a fiery spirit, a much sought for characteristic in the cold, damp climes of Eriu.

She was one of the Gaels, a time when men and women were not as restricted as they are today. As a child she was always outgoing and brave, preferring martial training to that of weaving or cooking. She also showed a gift for druidery early in her life. Whenever she took up a weapon, particularly the spear, she would feel a pleasant sensation deep in her loins, a sensation that only grew when competing with the others.

It grew further when she was taken to the area of the deity, an ancient god represented by a golden idol surrounded by stone pillars. It is here she witnessed her first sacrifice to the deity, a prisoner from a rival tribe. The event fascinated and thrilled her. When all were slumbering, late at night, she would sneak up that hill and press her naked body against the idol. She would often hear whispers then, she yearned the idol to come alive and ruin her. Although she enjoyed being stronger than most men she yearned to be overpowered and brutally ravished. The thought sent wonderful chills throughout her body. Who could do it to her better than a god?

Considered beautiful by many, she was claimed by the chief for a while, but she proved too much for him and her many sexual endeavours were considered too much even in those times. He soon took another and Anann continued her nightly visits to the idol.

One day the men prepared for battle against a rival tribe. Anann made to join them but was refused, though it was not unheard of for woman to fight then she was on the cusp of womanhood. It was expected of her to bear children first. But the druid saw something in her and intervened, she was overjoyed when the chief allowed her participation.

When she appeared at the battlefield there were many lustful gasps, for she appeared wearing nothing more than a helm, armoured boots and wielding only her favoured spear. The druid had painted strange patterns along one side of her body. All were mesmerized at the sight of her, and none dared turn her from the oncoming battle.

She recalled nothing but later heard that she fought like the goddess of war herself, spear whirling faster than the eye could make out. All she remembered was that with every kill the sensation in her loins grew. Yet it was her exploits at the end of the victorious battle that amazed everyone. Covered in blood and viscera, insane with lust, she gave herself to almost every surviving and willing man on the battlefield. She even took a few of the prisoners with a crazed fervour and slaughtered them at the moment of climax. But it only served to dull the sensation momentarily, not end it.

All kneeled to her and hailed Anann as their war goddess incarnate. The chief did not survive the battle, and all agreed to be led by her.