syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You want me to do what, you ask.
She is blushing and smiling and radiant in the low light of your bedroom.
It’s what I like, she says.
Suddenly you are reminded of the candles and the wax and your scarred chest. Lately your bedroom has taken on the look of a cheap porno shop. Leather everything and dildos and lube and cuffs and beads and fucking weird underwear litter the small room. It amazes you that people can take sex this far. How did blood and shit and Jesus get mixed up with passion? She wants a fucking swing next.
I don’t know if I can do that, you say. The whole pain pleasure thing, I just don’t get it.
I’m not going to do it to you. It gets me off.
You could handle her thumb up your ass. You could handle the nipple biting, the choking, the hair pulling, and the slapping. Given enough booze you could handle her coming on your face, her eating your asshole, the playful rapes, the public sex, but where do you draw the line?
You look at her a little doubtfully. Sitting on the edge of your bed, physically she is everything you want, everything every man wants. Right now you would settle for just holding her in your arms and resting in the dark.
I don’t’ want to hurt you, you say.
You can tell she is growing impatient.
I have given you loads of free will here, she says. I put up with a ton of shit and never say anything. I listen to your songs and stories and watch you paint. I indulge every one of your diluted drug induced whims. How many nights have I fucked myself while you were either passed out or too drunk to do it? You can do this for me.
And with that she has got you. She has got you again with that same genuine speech she uses every time she wants something. Your drug use and debauchery knows no bounds. You don’t have the right to look down on her just because strange sex happens to get her through her days and nights. Even as you have resigned yourself to doing what she wants, you try and talk her out of it.
I love you baby, I really do. But Christ, blood play? What does any of this even have to do with sex?
It’s not about sex or love, she says as she takes off her white blouse. It’s about me. It’s about me coming, me getting off. You do remember me right? You never have trouble when the sex involves booze or dugs. This is about me ok? What I want.
You want to tell her it has nothing to do with rubber suits, or whips, or whatever fetish is taboo these days. You want to tell her you would do anything for her except hurt her. You want to play her that stupid fucking Meatloaf song. Instead far away from your small bedroom you hear yourself say ok.
She whips her black bra off with a flick of her wrist and again you are reminded of her lack of intimacy. It’s always fuck me now; fuck me harder, fuck me more, further and further. She steps toward you and as she lightly kisses you on the lips she slips the small razor blade into your palm.
It will be ok, she says.
She lies back and slips out of her balk dress pants and panties. Just the sight of her sliding out of those panties and you are ready. You undress yourself and lift her right leg. As you begin to slide yourself inside her, you slowly drag the razor across the smooth skin just under her butt check. She moans either from the cut or you or both. You work your way deeper inside her and run your hand across the fresh cut. You wipe the blood around her neck and between her tits. Working yourself in and out of her you press your chest against her soft body, the blood sticky and sweet between you. She breathes harder and appears to climax. You hope it’s enough, but soon she whispers in your ear;
Again.
You press the small blade to her throat. Not enough to cut her, but enough so she can feel the now warm steel. You press it across her lips with one end touching her nose and the other touching her chin. You want to hold her head to your chest when you see the tiny slit the blade has left when you pulled it away. Instead you continue working inside her as she pulls your head closer to her mouth and whisper;
More.
You almost sigh, but catch yourself before you do. With the razor still in your hand and while still working away inside her you lift one of her soft breasts and drag the razor across the bottom applying moderate pressure. This time it’s something between a moan and a cry. You want to stop, but you know she will hate you for it. So you slide the webbing between your thumb and forefinger under the newly cut breast. This time you smear the scarlet across her stomach and press your thumb to the corner of her mouth so she can taste herself. Her climax is unmistakable the second time. You try and hurry yourself before she can ask for more, but the sight of all the red rolling out from under her breast and onto your white sheets is making it difficult. Finally you come to a pleasure less crest and roll off her.
She grabs the towel and iodine from the bedside table and hurries into the bathroom to clean herself and the cuts without saying a word. You sit and stare at the two small cherry red puddles. Your white sheets are covered with smears and tiny droplets of her blood. Absently you think of cleaning them before they stain the mattress, but instead you head for your whiskey.
You grab the bottle from the kitchen and notice you are smearing her blood on the bottle as you take it back to your small bedroom. Lighting a cigarette and taking a long pull straight from the bottle she walks out of the bathroom. Amazingly the cuts that were not quite pouring blood have already been blocked. Her pale smooth skin has also been cleaned. She looks as if nothing has happened. She is glowing and radiant in the low light again.
With her blood still smeared on your chest and stomach and hands she takes the bottle from you and hits it just as hard as you did. She kisses you hard on the mouth and you can taste the whiskey and the tiny cut on her lip she probably didn’t even notice.
I love you baby. Thank you.
In response you hand her your cigarette and after two deep drags she hands it back and says,
Go get yourself cleaned up and fix us a couple of real drinks. I’ll take care of the sheets.
You drop you cigarette in the toilet and clean yourself without showering. You look at yourself in the mirror, chest and stomach now only pink, feeling indifferent about what you have just done.
Just one more line crossed, you think, as you take another hit from the stained bottle.
She is blushing and smiling and radiant in the low light of your bedroom.
It’s what I like, she says.
Suddenly you are reminded of the candles and the wax and your scarred chest. Lately your bedroom has taken on the look of a cheap porno shop. Leather everything and dildos and lube and cuffs and beads and fucking weird underwear litter the small room. It amazes you that people can take sex this far. How did blood and shit and Jesus get mixed up with passion? She wants a fucking swing next.
I don’t know if I can do that, you say. The whole pain pleasure thing, I just don’t get it.
I’m not going to do it to you. It gets me off.
You could handle her thumb up your ass. You could handle the nipple biting, the choking, the hair pulling, and the slapping. Given enough booze you could handle her coming on your face, her eating your asshole, the playful rapes, the public sex, but where do you draw the line?
You look at her a little doubtfully. Sitting on the edge of your bed, physically she is everything you want, everything every man wants. Right now you would settle for just holding her in your arms and resting in the dark.
I don’t’ want to hurt you, you say.
You can tell she is growing impatient.
I have given you loads of free will here, she says. I put up with a ton of shit and never say anything. I listen to your songs and stories and watch you paint. I indulge every one of your diluted drug induced whims. How many nights have I fucked myself while you were either passed out or too drunk to do it? You can do this for me.
And with that she has got you. She has got you again with that same genuine speech she uses every time she wants something. Your drug use and debauchery knows no bounds. You don’t have the right to look down on her just because strange sex happens to get her through her days and nights. Even as you have resigned yourself to doing what she wants, you try and talk her out of it.
I love you baby, I really do. But Christ, blood play? What does any of this even have to do with sex?
It’s not about sex or love, she says as she takes off her white blouse. It’s about me. It’s about me coming, me getting off. You do remember me right? You never have trouble when the sex involves booze or dugs. This is about me ok? What I want.
You want to tell her it has nothing to do with rubber suits, or whips, or whatever fetish is taboo these days. You want to tell her you would do anything for her except hurt her. You want to play her that stupid fucking Meatloaf song. Instead far away from your small bedroom you hear yourself say ok.
She whips her black bra off with a flick of her wrist and again you are reminded of her lack of intimacy. It’s always fuck me now; fuck me harder, fuck me more, further and further. She steps toward you and as she lightly kisses you on the lips she slips the small razor blade into your palm.
It will be ok, she says.
She lies back and slips out of her balk dress pants and panties. Just the sight of her sliding out of those panties and you are ready. You undress yourself and lift her right leg. As you begin to slide yourself inside her, you slowly drag the razor across the smooth skin just under her butt check. She moans either from the cut or you or both. You work your way deeper inside her and run your hand across the fresh cut. You wipe the blood around her neck and between her tits. Working yourself in and out of her you press your chest against her soft body, the blood sticky and sweet between you. She breathes harder and appears to climax. You hope it’s enough, but soon she whispers in your ear;
Again.
You press the small blade to her throat. Not enough to cut her, but enough so she can feel the now warm steel. You press it across her lips with one end touching her nose and the other touching her chin. You want to hold her head to your chest when you see the tiny slit the blade has left when you pulled it away. Instead you continue working inside her as she pulls your head closer to her mouth and whisper;
More.
You almost sigh, but catch yourself before you do. With the razor still in your hand and while still working away inside her you lift one of her soft breasts and drag the razor across the bottom applying moderate pressure. This time it’s something between a moan and a cry. You want to stop, but you know she will hate you for it. So you slide the webbing between your thumb and forefinger under the newly cut breast. This time you smear the scarlet across her stomach and press your thumb to the corner of her mouth so she can taste herself. Her climax is unmistakable the second time. You try and hurry yourself before she can ask for more, but the sight of all the red rolling out from under her breast and onto your white sheets is making it difficult. Finally you come to a pleasure less crest and roll off her.
She grabs the towel and iodine from the bedside table and hurries into the bathroom to clean herself and the cuts without saying a word. You sit and stare at the two small cherry red puddles. Your white sheets are covered with smears and tiny droplets of her blood. Absently you think of cleaning them before they stain the mattress, but instead you head for your whiskey.
You grab the bottle from the kitchen and notice you are smearing her blood on the bottle as you take it back to your small bedroom. Lighting a cigarette and taking a long pull straight from the bottle she walks out of the bathroom. Amazingly the cuts that were not quite pouring blood have already been blocked. Her pale smooth skin has also been cleaned. She looks as if nothing has happened. She is glowing and radiant in the low light again.
With her blood still smeared on your chest and stomach and hands she takes the bottle from you and hits it just as hard as you did. She kisses you hard on the mouth and you can taste the whiskey and the tiny cut on her lip she probably didn’t even notice.
I love you baby. Thank you.
In response you hand her your cigarette and after two deep drags she hands it back and says,
Go get yourself cleaned up and fix us a couple of real drinks. I’ll take care of the sheets.
You drop you cigarette in the toilet and clean yourself without showering. You look at yourself in the mirror, chest and stomach now only pink, feeling indifferent about what you have just done.
Just one more line crossed, you think, as you take another hit from the stained bottle.
