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Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Dig
Usually, after having sex, one does not expect to find blood everywhere. That’s not to say that bleeding doesn’t occur: what horny woman who is sure she has finished her period and can’t wait to enthusiastically jump on a cock hasn’t been suddenly surprised by a puddle of blood on the bed (or couch), post-shag? Or, for those of us that know a good orgasm is the best way to alleviate painful cramps, what about those bloodbaths that occur during mid-menses’ sex? Or the specks of blood that might appear during a particularly hard whipping, perhaps? (Though I’d argue, for my own part, that if there are any more than a few light welts on my arse U R DOIN IT RONG).
So when you wake up in the morning to find fresh streaks of blood on the sheets and duvet, and you’re not due for your period for some weeks, and you’ve had no more than a firm hand spank you, and, after checking, you’re sure that you’re not bleeding from any orifice or bodily surface, it’s fair to say that you might be a little confused. Well I was, anyway; it was clear that something – someone – was bleeding.
“I think I’ve figured out where the blood came from,” he hollered from the bathroom.
“Oh? Where?” I called out from under the duvet, still curled up snug in bed.
“My back,” he replied. “You practically ripped one of my moles clean off.”
I pulled my hand out from the warmth of the duvet and looked at my fingers: my nails were pretty short as they always are (all the better for wanking* – and for sticking up boys’ bums), how could I have caused him to be so badly injured?
“Really?” I asked, as he walked back into the bedroom.
“Yup, “ he replied. “No worries, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
I made him turn around so I could peek at his back and was dismayed to see – what remained of – one of his moles ragged and bleeding.
“Oh god, I’m sorry! It looks like it might fall off. Let me put a plaster on it, stop it getting infected.”
I returned a moment later, Band Aid in hand, and attached it carefully to the small gash on his back.
“I feel awful,” I said. “I can’t believe I wounded you! How the hell did I do that?”
“I think you dug your nails deeply into me every time you climaxed.”
I frowned, confused. “But surely it must have hurt? Why didn’t you say something, or stop me?”
He smiled. “It did hurt, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself so much it was worth it to suffer a little pain.”
I laughed. “Thanks, I was definitely enjoying it. But I didn’t realise I was hurting you!”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, heat of passion and all that.”
“OK,” I said, kissing him gently. “But next time I’ll try not to inflict any more damage.” Or leave the task of scrubbing the sheets with soda crystals to you, alone.
*Which is why I cannot stand porn that includes female performers who have long acrylic nails: they're the antithesis to real –good– sex, and a flag to me that what I'm seeing onscreen is bullshit and fake.
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