Daddy and I are a part of the Sanguinarian lifestyle, which means we participate in the acts of feeding and donating blood during scenes and sex. Daddy always feeds, I always donate. He is called a ‘Sang’ and I am called a ‘swan’. I always cut myself to get the blood He so badly craves. He has yet to lift a blade against me. We are both okay with that. We both know each other’s limits as far as blade play and blood play.
Last night, He lit the candles and dimmed the lights in our bedroom. I gathered the blade, the disinfectant, the bandages and the bandages and laid them out before us on the shelf. He sat down on the bed as I stood before Him, holding the blade. He took the blade from my hand, looked up at me and asked if I was ready. I looked at Him quizically and asked, “Are You?”. His hesitation to answer my question told me that no, indeed He was not..and that was perfectly okay. Negotiating a scene, especially an emotionally and/or sexually charged scene, should never take place during a scene, but rather before, when everyone is still level headed and reasonable.
I took the blade from my Lover’s hand and made a thin scratch on my forearm. He took my hand, lifted my arm to His lips and licked the thin stream of blood from the wound. He began grabbing and squeezing the scratch, pressing a bit more blood to the surface and savored the coppery taste. When He had drank all the small scratch would yield, He released my arm and I picked up the blade again. I made two slightly deeper cuts on my upper thigh and Daddy waited with His breath drawn in for the shallow cuts to begin to show red. The blood began to pool in little droplets at the surface as He closed His eyes and lowered His mouth to the wounds. Growling in His throat, He licked and sucked at my blood, hungry and excited for more.
The endorphins had just began to kick in for me, the pain of the shallow cuts exacerbated by His suckling and needing at the wounds. Subspace was close…the pain was pulling me slowly into a hazy, darkened fog…my body began to shake and spasm involuntarily. Daddy growled again and pulled my thigh to Him, hard and rough…the way He enjoys feeding the most.
When He had taken all the blood the shallow cuts would allow, He released my thigh and directed me to start cleaning the cuts and scratches. He was breathing deeply…but He was not yet satisfyed. He had just told me to clean my wounds, signaling that part of the scene was finished. I felt like I had failed Him. I knew He was dissatisfied with the level out output, yet He had ended the scene.
“Let me cut deeper for You,” I asked, my eyes rimmed with tears.
“I never said you had to cut so shallow,” He responded.
I took up the blade for the third time. I made three deep cuts on my thigh, one next to the other, just below the other two He had just bleed dry. These cuts were deep. Not deep enough to require stitches (which is a hard limit at the present time) but deep enough for the blood droplets to pool at the surface of the wounds and drip down my leg, running together and increasing the bloodflow. He looked at my blood, the rivulets trickling down my thigh, and He grabbed my leg, hard, and began to feed.
Subspace was now fully engulfing me, drawing me slowly into its darkened shadows. My body was trembling and my head was fuzzy as He licked and sucked at my burning thigh. He was finally satisfying His burning desires for blood and pain. My blood. My pain. All for Him. Only for Him.
And now, here I sit, the morning after, typing this passage as a momemto. My wounds cleaned and still stinging, remembering the passion with which we practiced our scene and the lovemaking that followed. Cherishing the ease with which He wiped away my fears of inadequacy last night, as easily as He wipes the tears from my eyes…and the blood from my thighs.