Warning: the following memoir contains themes of blood lust, blood play and blood exchange - light human vampirism. If any of the above is offensive, this is not your type of sexy story.
---------------------------------He didnt want to fuck me, he didnt feel he needed to - he wanted to touch me, kiss me, taste me and...cut me. Normally your mother guides you to make informed decisions, especially about men and I know my mother in particular has always been very vocal on this point. Normally your mother tells you to date clean cut, nice and sweet boys. Normally you look at your mother, smile meekly, go meet your tattooed punk-rock boy and fuck him up against her car. Or maybe thats just me...
Milo was one hot and scary guy, with light blue eyes that made you think a thousand sweet little thoughts. He had the sides of his head shaved and a few inches of mohawk gelled on the top of his head. He had sculpted,soft lips and those big, ice blue eyes. I loved his thick guage piercings, his angry tattoos and the fact that he was addicted to poetry. Yes, my rock n' roll dream was a poetry fiend. Who would have guessed? He would read things to me when we first met in the hallways of school during my sophmore year in High School Hell. He read a bit of Paulo Coehlo as he walked slowly behind me,
I like cute and cuddly. I like dark and twisted. I like soft lips that I see, quite like yours...
His voice crisp and intelligent, needy yet calculated. He found wisdom in written word just as I did. I smiled at him and dissappeared into the milling group of students, giggling as I sat in class even hours later. He began skipping class so that he could sit with me during my lunch hour, talking to me of Tennyson and Keats, Lindea. His grand volume of memorized quotes and bits surprized me immensely, always made me deeply contemplative. He always had the perfect quote or line of poetry to capture a moment, or a topic of discussion. He was like a punk rock Shakespeare, like a tattooed Tennyson, rule breaking Dickinson, if you follow.
Milo took every chance he could to amaze me, to proclaim his emotions, his vision. As he would listen to me speak of some literary giant or an indie guitarist, he would pull on the silver ring that went through his lip with his teeth. Pulling gently and steadily as he concentrated on my lips, my voice, my eyes. I loved piercings and I have piercings; Ive gotten many piercings just for the sensation - I never put jewelry in it. Very soon, he and I were very close, very intimate with our discussions, our bent heads very close as we spoke a heated debate or even simple prose.
One day, Milo kissed me. angels sang and the wind blew, my lips burned and my heart stopped beating. Feeling his need and his adoration was like being beaten, like being whipped. When he pulled away after the first kiss, he let his head sag and his eyes searched the ground, looked at his crossed legs as we sat on a wide planter at the school. Our lips and tongues were still moist from the other, the taste of him in my mouth was so new and I was so filled with hope. He spoke softly, sadly,
I just dont know why every time I see you, my heart hurts me, my chest seems to swell with you, my blood even.
When he said the word "blood" he looked directly in my eyes. My mouth was slightly open, pondering his words. I reached over to him and pressed my hand to the side of his neck, his hand automatically clamped over mine and he brought my hand to his lips, planting kisses on my skin. What he didnt know was that I thought of him too often for my comfort, when I saw him my heart also swelled, my lips began to hurt and I just longed to hear his voice, his cadence and passion. I was overwhelmed with the possibility that he could feel even half of what I felt for him.
I wiggled until I was in his lap, my back pressed to his stomach, his hands on the tops of my thighs. We had always been in very close physical proximity when we would hang out, but this time - it was heated, it was like my body surged as it touched his. We spoke as normal, but this time it was even more heated, more passionate, lots of tension caught between us. When the bell rang he grabbed my hand before I could leave and begged me to meet him in the parking lot, would I please come over? Would I just give him my time? I smiled and walked away - my smile was all the answer I knew he would need. For the next three hours, my body was tense, my mind was wandering and I kept dropping things. Did I want Milo in my head?
When he saw me sitting cross legged on the hood of his tired black car, his smile seemed brighter than the intense Southern sun that hit my skin. In he car he played Static-X, tapping the steering wheel lightly at each intense chord and talking to me all the while, laughing at my little sardonic jokes. He laughed when I sang a song that came throbbing through the speakers, my high Soprano voice trying to match that of the dark singer in the band.
His room was just like him, eclectic, hectic and beautiful. Posters lay on the walls, overlapping pictures, tickets stubs, pages ripped from books, newspapers. His photography, his drawings, his spray paint mural on the ceiling, red with seemingly dripping black. I dropped softly onto his "bed", which was actually more like a million fat pillows all stacked in one corner, comforters and the haphazard and haggard teddy bear. He turned on more heavy rock and took his shoes off, dropping next to me, laying on his side, seemingly shocked by my presence in his "inner sanctum". He slid his hand to my stomach, his fingers sliding softly over the exposed flesh there, his voice soft as he spoke about the Bush Administration and their sins, his eyes flicking from my face, to the window and back again. Interrupting him, I touched the pads of my fingers to the piercing in his eyebrow, my fingers soft, my lips slightly parted. I looked at his eyes, his lips, his smile appearing softly. Again, my body was shocked when his lips touched mine, his hand wrapped under my hip, gripping tight to me. He laughed at my tiny moaning sounds as he kissed me, telling me how I was the strangest girl in the world. He really liked strange.
I love when you can just make out with someone for what seems like forever, your lips becoming sore, your bodies so tight and tense, grasping for the other, needing so much. When he found his way between my legs, he innocently lay a hand on my stomach, his kissing becoming even more heated, his hand sliding up to my breasts. He kissed the tops of them, his lips so soft it felt like just a breath of wind against my skin. I dug my nails into his back when he found my nipple and licked it, his eyes on my eyes; I could see his tongue touching my tiny, hard nipple. I could feel the inevitable slickness in my panties, my need, but also my restraint - at the time I was still a virgin, and still very guarded. He was sucking on my nipples, craddling them in his hands as he did so when he stopped and looked at me, leant on his elbow and stared at me intently,
I know you wont think Im strange for asking you this, but, weve sort of spoken of this before. So Ill give it a try. Dont worry, I wont ask you to fuck me.
He paused and wet his lips,
I want to cut you, I want to taste your blood on my lips, I want to see it on my fingertips. Please, I know you want it too.
And I did. Ill share something with you - my first orgasm was had during the movie Interview with a Vampire and I didnt even touch myself. It happened automatically. When Tom Cruise leans over Kirsten Dunst in that big bed, and cut his wrist, presses it to her lips - its just too much for words. Obviously my body thought so when I was eleven, because I spontaneously orgasmed. So I already knew I had this predestined vampiric sort of need within me. I had spoken to Milo about this before and he knew the "Interview" incident, he relished it, in fact.
I bit down hard on my lips, looked at the red ceiling and slowly nodded my assent. He laughed a little in glee and went off in search of supplies. I wiggled around in my wet panties, uncertain, scared and sooo damn horny.
When he returned, he had a sterile wrapped razor blade, a few alcohol prep pads and a couple of band aids. Awe, so cute. He laid it all aside, very near the menacing teddy bear and began kissing me in a torrent, his lips mashing against mine, biting my lips so that my arms curled around his neck, pressing my hips and my breasts against him. Eventually all the tongue pashing forced my legs to curl around his hips, my finger tips running softly over his scalp. He stopped and looked at me, a soft smile on his lips. He pulled down my jeans a little, to reveal more of my hip bone, he kissed the pale flesh there and ran the tip of his tongue over it, the heat of it shocking my system. He took a little prep pad and rubbed my whole hip area and then unwrapped the blade, all the while his teeth were softly clamped over his lip ring. My heart started pounding when I saw him bring the blade near my sanatized skin. I think I whimperd quickly with a twinge of fear. He smiled slowly and then kissed my forhead, my lips, my stomach and then put the blade to my skin. I moaned when he dragged the sharp blade against my flesh, my back softly arching and my hand tightening on his shoulder, grapsing his flesh. He made four quick little cuts, each about an inch long. Little drops of blood were sliding together, the blood from each cut mingling. I could feel the blood grow slightly cold as I lay there panting, my body tense, my kitten nearly in pain and throbbing. He looked at me very devilishly, my legs wrapped around him as he knelt between my legs, his hand griping my hip very near the deep little wounds. His voice was deep, dark and alluring when he quoted soft words to me,
For men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best as Heaven and Hell...
And with that, he pressed his lips to the bloddy little cuts and kissed them, blood smudging on his mouth, his lips. Tennyson and blood - I thought - what a combination. I cried out as his tongue raked softly over them, the heat making the small cuts burn and become little slices of light in my mind. The pain was a divine light in my mind, buring at me, hurting me, but pushing me to the edge. My heart nearly stopped as he lifted his face and I saw my blood lining his lips, his tongue licking at them, the shining silver of his lip ring marred by the slick red liquid. When he kissed me, I tasted the bite in my own blood, the primal heat rose in my throat and I moaned, his lips biting at mine as I tasted blood. He licked his finger tips and as he began once again kissing me, the tiny traces of blood remaining on our lips, smuding quietly around our mouths. He pressed his fingers gainst my wound, touching it lightly and then pressing. I bucked against him, his hard body feeling like a weight on me.
He slid his body down mine and unbuttoned my jeans, sliding them off and down with my sodden panties. He once again licked my sweet little cuts and began licking my kitten. No doubt the taste of blood and pussy in his mouth. I moaned and almost instantaneously came, feeling the air against the blood stained hip and his tongue sliding over my swollen clit. When I came, the force of it arched my back and buried my head in the pillows that I lie upon. It seemed I could smell the blood, I could taste it, was I seeing red even?
He lightly kissed the small cuts, his lips soft and warm, wet with my moisture. He leant on his elbow, his body lounging over my thigh, he stared at the little red lines. He stared at me. He licked his fingertips, he seemed to hum one octave. As I looked at him I realized that maybe I was in a little over my head. Would I always need this type of sensory overload now? Would all of my sexual thoughts be centered around blood? Would I become a slave to this blood lust?
He smiled at me, all my fears dispelled. It was just one piece of me. Just a small sliver of my sexuality. Notedly, it is a strange piece and such a tiny one. People cringe at gore and blood - so do I. Horror movies dont turn me on. Thinking of murder and death doesnt turn me on. All of that scares me like you wouldnt believe. Praps its the thought that someone would want something to intimate of me. Praps its also my tiny little masochistic side, the side that likes swords and blades. I have piercings, a few tattoos - its all this kind of ritualistic feeling that brings me closer to myself.
The pain reminds me that I'm alive. The blood, well the blood Im still trying to figure out, but until then Im fine with it. I'm fine with myself, I accept myself no matter what my thoughts. I fear nothing and am willing to do whatever I think might make me happy.
And after all, whats a little blood between friends? :)