Note: The following story delves into intimacy and primal instincts, exploring themes of passion and the intensity of human connection (blood). If you find these topics unsettling, this may not be for you.
I'd seen him three days in a row, our first encounters cloaked in the warmth of platonic connection. Each moment felt electric to me, though I wasn't sure he felt the same. But something stirred in me, a desire that eclipsed reason, pushing me to invite him for one last night together before a long trip. He agreed, and with that, anticipation rooted itself deep within me.
I’ve never wanted someone quite like this. He was the flavor I didn't know I craved, the blend of danger and mystery that my mind longed to unravel. I scribbled feverish thoughts in my journal before he arrived, lines of English and French attempting to capture the pull he exerted on me. When I tore those pages out, I was almost embarrassed by the honesty, by how he seemed indispensable despite being almost a stranger. Yet, love has no "right" path, and though I'd tried to keep my heart guarded, he effortlessly dismantled those walls.
He arrived after a long day, his fatigue visible but his eyes alight with hunger. I promised myself this night would be free of boundaries, free of the scripts and rules that had dictated our previous encounters. I didn’t want dominance; I wanted to surrender to everything I felt, to let him pass through me like a wave of pure sensation. When he came in, I offered him a glass of wine, and my gaze traced his form, already undressing him in my mind. My body pulsed with a longing that had waited patiently to be unleashed.
I wore something daring—a plunge into youthful abandon I hadn’t allowed myself in years. I said it was for him, but deep down, it was for me, a reminder that I could still feel the allure of my own body despite the passage of time. We kissed, our lips melding in familiar intensity. There was no need for words; our need had grown too wild to be restrained by conversation. He moved inside me, and I lost myself to the rhythm, to the whispers and soft moans that drifted between us, dissolving the world outside.
But after a few passionate moments, there was suddenly a pause—a soft, hesitant “Um…” broke the spell. The scent of fresh blood reached me, and I felt a pang of dread. He looked down at the pillow beneath me, stained red, and asked gently, “Do you think you might be on your period?” His voice held none of the judgment I feared. I took a deep breath, mortified. I'd made sure my period was over. It should have been. Apologizing, I tried to explain, but he held my gaze, his eyes calm, almost golden in the moonlight. “I don’t mind,” he said, and I believed him. The warmth in his gaze erased my shame, and I leaned forward, kissing him with renewed fervor, feeling a vulnerability and acceptance that went deeper than flesh.
I remember the way he moved down between my legs, a slow, purposeful descent that left me exposed, vulnerable, yet completely free. In that moment, shame had no place; the usual impulse to cover, to apologize, to ask if he wanted me to prepare or clean myself faded into oblivion. Instead, I opened myself to him, surrendering to the reverence in his gaze, the gentle hunger with which he approached me, as if tasting me was some sacred ritual.
His mouth found me, warm and tender, each kiss sending sparks through my body. I could barely believe it, this act of devotion, and I dared not analyze it as I usually would. It was hard for me to accept gestures like these—the kind that stripped me of control, that left me questioning nothing, only feeling. But with him, the questions melted away, leaving only sensation.
His tongue moved over me with a skill that made me ache, teasing and tasting, while his fingers joined, each touch like fire meeting skin. I felt myself unravel, losing grip on everything but him, my world narrowed to the way he held me, cherished me, igniting me from within. And when my release finally surged, powerful and all-consuming, I knew I'd left a mess on his fingers, yet I felt only bliss, grateful for the magic he'd worked, leaving me breathless and wholly undone.
I clung to him, my nails digging into his skin as though I could somehow meld our bodies together. His closeness felt as necessary as air, and the intensity of his embrace only heightened the desire coursing through me. When he paused, hovering over me, I whispered, “I want you again. Please.” His gaze was unrelenting, his voice husky as he admitted, “I… I took the condom off.” Logic evaporated, and I pulled him close, murmuring, “It’s okay.” There was no turning back.
Hours slipped by, our bodies moving in perfect, unrestrained rhythm. My memories blur, but I recall the feeling of him inside me, the taste of his skin, the sound of his voice as he whispered, “You feel so good.” I lost myself, climaxing again and again, each wave of pleasure pushing us deeper into shared oblivion. When I finally opened my eyes, the bed looked like a scene from a fevered dream, sheets drenched in blood and desire. I should have felt horror, but instead, the sight intoxicated me. It was raw, untamed, a part of me awakened in that room that I’d never known before.
I was running on fumes, three nights of little sleep leaving me drained, yet somehow, desire still surged through me, a pulse that thrummed with every lingering glance, every touch of his skin against mine. I’d lost track of how many times he’d driven me to the edge, to that sweet crescendo of pleasure that consumed whatever energy I thought I had left. Soft music filled the room—something I’d chosen earlier, though now it felt like background noise, eclipsed by the rhythm of our bodies, the heavy scent of lust in the air.
I asked if I could be on top, a craving to assert my control, to lose myself in that primal, untamed freedom. He smirked, denying me, his hands firm as he held me down, his strength reminding me that, despite my desire to dominate, there was something intoxicating in surrendering to him. A fleeting fantasy of wrestling him—this man fourteen years younger, with boundless energy and a devilish grin—crossed my mind, but exhaustion was a slow, seductive weight, and as I tried to push him off, he pinned me effortlessly, his body a warm cage.
Finally, he relented, and I straddled him, expecting to ride him fiercely, to find my release in wild abandon. But the moment I met his gaze, I felt my strength wane, a delicious fatigue overtaking me. Despite my tiredness, his face—a mixture of lust and adoration—ignited something deep inside me, one final surge of energy. I moved slowly, deliberately, overwhelming him with the intensity I usually reserved, my own little trick no one else had ever truly been able to handle. Yet tonight, that fire felt dim, leaving me both satisfied and slightly disappointed, as if my own limits were mocking me. Still, the pleasure cascaded, another orgasm unfurling through me, leaving us both breathless.
Afterward, I lay beside him, staring into the dim light, the smell of us mingling with the heavy, coppery scent of blood. For someone usually so averse to blood, I felt strangely at peace. This was different, unbound by fear—somehow, this had unlocked a part of me I never knew I needed.
“Tell me a secret,” I whispered, craving that re-connection, hoping to touch a hidden part of him in this delicate, intimate hour.
“I don’t have any,” he replied softly, his tone playful but evasive. I thought, What a liar. But I let it go, a secret smile playing at my lips as I mirrored his reply when he asked the same of me. We all have secrets, some too precious to give away.
Without a word, I slipped out of bed and did something rare, something I never did unless I truly felt it—something I found both intimate and humiliating. I knelt between his legs, took his length in my mouth, slowly, savoring his taste, the vibrations of his moans that resonated in my core. It had been ages since I’d done this, the vulnerability of it flooding my senses, but his reaction was worth every lingering doubt. I didn’t do this often, never because I felt obligated or to be some “good girl”—I wasn’t, nor had I ever wanted to be.
Halfway through, I felt my need reignite, and I tried to climb back on top of him, already craving him again. He laughed, whispering, “You are relentless.” I smiled, feeling the truth in his words. Yes, I am relentless, I thought. And maybe, if I met someone like myself, I’d exhaust even my own limits. The idea simmered, a wicked thought of keeping him here for a whole weekend, using him, tasting him, until my body finally gave in, if it ever could.
We lay there in silence, the kind that only intimacy can create, until we drifted into a soft, blissful sleep, our bodies entwined, my head against his chest as our breaths mingled. In the last hazy hour before dawn, before he left for work and I for my journey, I felt strangely whole, as if, just for a moment, I’d touched something timeless.
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