Cassidy didn’t fall from grace. She danced out of Eden barefoot, red curls bouncing, apple juice on her lips, and the serpent coiled like a lover at her feet.
The garden had always been too quiet for Cassidy. Too obedient. Even the birdsong seemed choreographed, and the flowers never dared bloom out of turn. Adam was sweet, but his kisses tasted like water—clean, dull, and lifeless.
Then the serpent came.
He didn’t slither so much as glide, scales catching the sunlight like lacquered obsidian. His tongue flicked between every word, sharp and slow, and when he said “You were made for more,” Cassidy felt it deep between her thighs.
She didn’t need convincing. Her hunger had teeth long before the fruit found her fingers.
The apple was heavy, slick with dew, the skin tight like satin over ripe flesh. When she bit it, juice trickled down her chin and onto her chest. The serpent watched, tongue tasting the air as her breath hitched.
“Tell me what you want, little Eve,” he hissed, coiling higher around the tree. “Speak it aloud. Let Eden hear.”
“I want more,” she whispered. “I want what I’m not supposed to have.”
And oh, the serpent gave.
His body wound around her ankles first, cool against her bare skin. As he rose, he caressed her thighs with scales like silk, parting her legs as he slithered. Cassidy leaned back against the tree, the bark rough against her spine, her nipples already stiff from the garden’s hush turning into heat.
“You’re a wicked girl,” the serpent crooned. “You taste like defiance.”
“I taste like curiosity,” she said, gripping the apple and pressing its wet flesh against her own. Juice ran down her belly, and the serpent followed it with a flick of his tongue—tasting, teasing, claiming.
His tongue split like temptation itself, dipping lower with every stroke. Cassidy moaned, pressing her hips forward. Her fingers threaded through his body as if he were a rope made for binding sinners to desire.
He coiled around her waist, his weight a beautiful pressure, until she couldn’t tell if she was being devoured or worshipped.
And still, he whispered. “They’ll call you wicked.”
“Let them.”
“They’ll say you ruined man.”
“He wasn’t built to last.”
The serpent curled around her breast, tongue flicking at the apple juice clinging to her nipple. Cassidy arched, gasping—half sacred, half sin. Her toes dug into Eden’s soil, and the trees bent inward, greedy for a glimpse.
When he slipped between her thighs, it wasn’t cold—it was molten. Wet, writhing pleasure drawn out like a hymn. The serpent knew no hurry. His tongue traced circles older than scripture. Cassidy clutched the fruit tight, bite marks dripping as she cried out, her climax shivering through the trees like thunder.
Eden didn’t fall. It shuddered.
After, she lay sprawled among petals, lips stained red, hair wild like fire. The serpent lay beside her, satisfied, coiled like a crown around her shoulders.
“I don’t think I want to go back,” she murmured.
“You never belonged there.
And Cassidy, the first sinner, the first slut, the first woman to moan louder than the angels—smiled.
Love & Sin!
888.750.4746 ext 858
If you thought this was fun, try some of these!
