Gliding the blade against his skin it’s only his response that tells me I’ve made a cut. His exhalations morph into growls, a rumble that speaks of pleasure, of a deep desire being sated.
I keep my movement even, working down in a straight line, careful not to go too deep. I start small, shallow and safe. My first experience at taking a blade to someone else and I embrace my natural fear; my understanding of the danger wrestles for dominance over my blood lust and wins.
I treat this with the respect it deserves; trusted in this shared experience.
The first small cut opens; a tiny sliver on his leg beading with red droplets.
“Good girl, go on” his breathing returned to normal he prompts me to continue.
I examine the scalpel closely, small in my hand, so innocuous. I like the way shines in the light. I like the way holding it excites me. I want to leave pretty marks. Kisses from the blade.
I contemplate where to apply the pressure for the next cut, stroking around the cleaned area of skin, whispering almost to myself “Pretty Daddy canvas”
Confidence of experience supports the second cut, anticipating his reaction, enjoying when it comes. I watch for the blood to start to seep, noting the uncontrollable sneer pulling at my lip.
I want to taste it. I want to drink and I want to share.
I will wait.
The third cut is executed in a similar way to the first, feeling more comfortable in my hand. The three cuts form lines of rounded blood drops. I am almost mesmerised, losing time to watching them bloom.
“Please may I try a curved one Daddy?” good girls ask nicely, because asking nicely is rewarded “Of course little one” he replies, stroking my hair.
Attempting to mimic what I have watched in demonstrations from trusted friends I trace the blade around in an arc, reading his responses. The ruby line appears even and smooth to the tune of his pleasure-pain reaction.
I play with technique, learning quickly how to angle the blade, which direction to take, where to place it in my hand. My willing canvas welcoming each cut.
A final deeper cut stays open and white for a second before blood pools into the tiny slit. I watch it fill, desperate to touch, torn between wanting to play and wanting to make more delicate slices on his skin.
“You can lick” He says. I bring my face closer, breathing in the fresh scent. Making eye contact to gain his full consent, received with a nod.
I can feel the cuts under my tongue, the sweat and blood mingling. My own growls surface as I lap at the wounds, matching his as he reacts. “It stings” he tells me, voice thick with pride before locking me into a passionate kiss, tasting himself on my mouth.
Carefully he moves the scalpel away to safety, freeing both my hands. “They bleed more when you work at them”. I know what to do, manipulating the skin so the cuts spring with fresh droplets, tiny beads of blood ready for me to suck and share, filling my senses and cementing my blood lust.
A lust shared and one to explore more, now I’ve made the first cut.