The first time.  Do you remember the first time?  I remember it.  I remember it in all its glorious, vibrant colour.

We lay together in that place between wakefulness and blissful sleep, our skins exchanging heat and cooling sweat. The once crisp, white sheets now moist and dishevelled from the strains of our sex.

You held me in your arms and I kissed the skin on your neck - wet salt. I let my lips linger there for a while.  Why?  What was it that I felt then as I pressed my mouth hard against your throat?  What was the sensation that aroused me so? It was the throbbing vibration of your pulse, the ebb and flow of your life.  I let my tongue flick back and forth over the raised, feint blueness of your succulent vein.

Something stirred in me, awakened, came alive with that tribal beat.  Why it should have happened at that moment, I don't know; how many times have I covered you with my kisses?  How often have I caressed you, loved you?  But I cannot mistake that very moment when I realised that I wanted to drink your blood.

Oh God, I remember the passion I felt for you; it was like no other sensation I had ever experienced, even although you know I have always loved you fiercely, violently. This new level of passion terrified me. The very thought of drinking from you made my mouth flow with juices, made every nerve in my body seem to vibrate with an inevitable need.

But how could I tell you?  How could I tell you I wanted to cut through your perfect skin with a keen blade? How could I tell you that I wanted to make you hurt, make you cry out in pain, make you bleed for me?  How could I tell you that I wanted to watch you bleeding?  How could I tell you that I wanted to lap the blood from a gushing, pain-lined wound? 

You awoke from your slumber. You cupped my face in your hands, looked deeper inside me than I have ever looked inside myself, searching for some clue, some indication of what thoughts, what fantasies, I was immersed in; you know me so well that I could not hide it from you.

"What is it?" you asked me, your beautiful face masked with concern; you knew something troubled me. And so, I confided in you, I poured my heart out to you, whispered to you through the darkness of our room, unable to look at you, fearing that you would turn away from me. I expected your love to wither and die in an instant. But you closed your eyes, slowly, and you smiled at me.

You left the room.  My head filled with thoughts of my coming life without you. But when you returned you stood over me, smiling. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the hastily closed drapes and found the gleaming edge of a razor blade in your hand.  You lay down then, and handed me the blade.

You bent your head back and to one side, exposing your throat to me.  The love I felt for you at that moment, the trust you were showing me, made my eyes fill with tears to know that your own passion for me matched my passion for you.

I drew the blade across your skin ever so gently; a sharp caress that made you draw in your breath and hold it, an exquisite, pristine-clean pain as the blade slid effortlessly under your skin and opened you up to me.

I stared in awe at the crimson stream of blood that ran down your throat, entranced by its slow progression down the pale flesh on your throat. I ran my index finger up the length of the red stream and rubbed it between my finger and thumb, savouring its sticky, rich texture. You watched me as I stared at it then pulled me gently to the wound on your throat. 

It seemed like forever, that moment between my longing and feeling your soft, fragile flesh beneath my lips. I closed my eyes as I felt the heat from your wound and slid my tongue under the skin.  You gasped, under the influence of that potent cocktail - pleasure and pain.  You gripped my hair in both hands, softly moaning and breathing heavily in my ear as you do each time we make love. 

You pressed my kiss deeper and deeper; as I tasted your blood for the first time, the taste of molten metal invaded me, took me over. I new that I would never be able to live without this, this new sensation, this new love that we had found together. I knew that this was a dark and dangerous passion we would indulge in together forever  - our blood fetish.

You rose up above me then, pushed me onto my back and bled into my eager mouth. You kissed me hard tasting your own blood on my lips, licking it from my mouth, my face. I cannot begin to describe the voluptuousness of the sensation I felt as you cut me and drank from me, drew my life into you, tasted me.  My God, I love you.

And as you lay next to me now, I gaze at you in your slumber. Your perfect beauty makes thunder of my heart, stings my eyes. I run my fingers over the tiny scars I have made on your skin; I touch myself; I love the texture of my own scars too - the little raised lines that you have made on me - the wounds of our desire. 

You stir under my touch and open your eyes as the tips of my first two fingers press on my favourite vein in your neck; I feel the pumping of your dark heart, that sensuous throb that makes my skin burn and my soul thirst, my body ache. 

And I look into the dark of your eyes and see myself reflected there, see the hunger on my own face and see you smile that smile - the one which tells me you know what I want now, the smile that says you want it too.  I love you so much for giving this to me - this scarlet bliss.

© Alex Severin 1999
 

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