“Write me a story,” he says. “Something you haven’t written before. Something hard, something that makes your stomach churn and sink at the thought of hitting ‘send.’ Write something honest, something hard, something real. Write something for me.”
For him.
Laying in the bed, sheets tangled and twisted around my legs, the light tinting my skin a reddish hue. I am here again, my hands itching to move, my mind racing too fast to keep up, eyes squeezed closed. Focus on breathing. Just breathe.
I feel the weight of him beside me, pressing against my side, hands roaming across my skin, breath hot against my neck.
“I want you to show me,” he whispers, fingers caressing my spine. “Show me what you want.” A shiver, unconscious muscle movement; I fight the instinct to jerk away. Hold steady. His weight shifts as he reaches for something, and I feel the slender tube pressing through the plastic against my skin. I open my eyes, see the needle in his hand, outstretched toward me. Show me.
Breathe. I feel a shudder go through my skin, different than before; the needle lights my body electric, pressing me toward kinetic motion. Beside him, I see an array of needles, one after another, waiting to pull the blood up to the surface of his skin.
It’s not the needles I want, but the blood.
Slowly, methodically, nervously, I start to push them through his skin. Lines upon lines of needles, 35, 40, down his thighs, in his chest, along his ribs. I lean back to look at him watching me, considering eyes, as I decide that I am done.
They come out much faster than they went in, and blood begins to run from the first before I am halfway through. The urge to lick it is almost overpowering, but I need it for other things. Oh, but just a taste, a small taste…
I press my lips against the open wound of the first puncture where the blood has started running and trace my tongue against the dropline, savoring the sweet, metallic taste. He exhales sharply, his hands clenching at his sides, the smallest whimper escaping from his lips. I could get drunk on this, but there are more needles to pull and that precious, precious blood is going to pool and clot quickly.
I move quickly now, more sure of my hands, steady as I pull and dispose each remaining needle protruding from his skin, racing time. I trace my fingers where the blood is heaviest, loading my fingertips like paintbrushes to draw words across his skin. It happens both fast and painstakingly slow: the blood clots quicker than I want, but writing is tedious. I want… I manage to get out before most of the blood has dried in smears, matting in his hair, tantalizing and sweet. He looks down at the words, smiles.
“Show me,” he says as I lick the blood from my fingers, savoring the flavor. His cock is hard, and I put him in my mouth, the taste of his blood still on my lips and groan against the flavors of him mixing in my mouth. More. I want more.
I stop before he cums, though it takes everything I have to pull back. I look over at him, body still smeared with blood, breathing harder than usual, eyes black and dangerous and full of longing. Lube. I need lube.
I reach down, hand slick with lube covering what is left of the blood, and begin to touch his ass, slowly, watching him breathe and relax into the sensation. Slowly pressing into him as he exhales, sharp, through his teeth. This. I live for this, for seeing him breathe like this, for these small sounds he makes as I push…just…there…ah, fuck.
Oh I want to strap my cock on, watch his eyes as I sink deeper into him. I want him to stroke his cock while I fuck him, but not cum until I tell him. I want to make a thousand razor-thin cuts along his skin to drink the small drops of blood that leak out, and then I want to fuck him, his cock buried deep in me, both of us covered in the sharp deep red. I want to cum once, twice around him before I tell him, yes, now, ok and he cums deep inside of me, a heavy growl in his throat, hands grasping everywhere, calling out in incoherent sounds. I want to watch his face, feel the tender shake of his body as slide up the length of him and sit on his chest, splayed out and let his cum leak down my thighs while he watches, panting, as I fuck myself.
His cum, my cum, his blood, our sweat, mixing in sticky, sweet, metallic smears across his chest, his stomach, his thighs. I bury my face into his chest and get high on the scent, open my lips and drink in the feral taste of sex soaking in to the layers of his skin.
Monomaniacism 