Curse

by Marguerite

On the night before their wedding, they toasted each other by drinking champagne flutes of each other's blood, their arms entwined in the traditional manner. That first time though, on the night they met, he had drunk straight from her source without recourse to crystal glasses.

For two years she had bled every day. No medical explanation. They had vacuumed out her insides. They had given her pills that caused pounding headaches. Eventually, she had resigned herself to taking iron tablets and the constant crimson flow had become the norm. She couldn't remember her twenty-eight day cycle, once a month curse. She couldn't remember being held.

She had been drinking Margaritas at the bar. The twenty-something bar where she and her thirty-something friends usually met on a Thursday night. She'd arrived late. They were gone. She drank.

He had bought her a drink. A bronzed, Italian cliché. Young girls in shiny, strapless wisps of material were puckering in his direction. Still, he sat beside her. He breathed garlic and beer. There had been a hint of sweat stain under his business shirt. Man odour. A thin moustache twirling above his lip. Man hair.

The first man to approach her in two years. A man to break a two year drought. Slick up the neglect in her barren cunt. Spill into it. Fill it.

He wooed her like any man. Plied her with more alcohol. Smiled at everything she said. Fed her tomato crisps from a packet. Then the question. Her place? It had to be her place for reasons she could not remember through the fog of Margaritas and Man.

Red, hot car. Fast, breezy, rooftop down. She had lifted her legs onto the dash and spread them. Cool air and gentle vibration of bumps in the road stirred nerve endings in her cunt. Speeding to her place where a man wanted her. Wanted to see her bare, white flesh and touch her lonely places. Maybe stay.

She had felt bloated. Hungry and bloated. Wanting. She needed to be home.

There in her bathroom, the colour of the sports car stained the white floor tiles and she had remembered. Temptress and tease but she needed him to leave. Excuses tripped and stumbled from her. Drank too much. Not feeling well. And still he had moved forward like her words were inaudible whispers.

Her brain had pounded with need and fear of discovery. His moustache tickling at her lips, then his mouth tasting, eating her cinnabar lip gloss. His mouth was memories of pasta and gentle sunshine on vineyards as his tongue pressed past her teeth and into her tequila, tomato chip crumb mouth. He had pulled her tight so that their chests heaved in unison.

He had ground his pelvis into hers, vibrating purr of the car engine in his loins. A slow, circular grind. Swirl of hips and lips.

Dizzy with desire, desperate with the need to extricate herself, save dignity. She was weak with his presence. She had muttered words into his mouth but he did not hear, mistaking her attempts to enunciate for playfulness and he had duelled with her tongue.

Thumbs reached inside her silk blouse to the tense, unencumbered nipples. He looked at her like he was grateful, like she would not be just another night. She wanted to be grateful too, but she needed to pull away before his hands had the chance to explore beyond the elastic of her unexciting, work knickers and retreat with disgust.

She had fought through the cloud to escape his embrace only to find him still there. His thumb was there, caught in string and cotton and she wanted the flush on her face to become so red that she died. Still that kiss. Not a moment's hesitation and his thumb had massaged at the barrier, gently encouraging the irritated flesh where hasty changes in public toilets had left little tears.

"I-I'm sorry," she tried to say but still his lips brushed her words away.

She found herself being undressed, carelessly, not roughly. He had unbuttoned the blouse, kissed each new patch of flesh as it became exposed. He had knelt on the floor, his kisses continuing as her skirt and knickers slid to her ankles, his hand patting the little pocket of rebellious flesh on her tummy. He had tugged at the fine ginger patch of hair beneath it with his teeth, sending shivers of excitement up through her mound that had caused the little pocket of flesh to wobble.

Bloated and unlovely. She still tried to escape. She could smell the excretions of desire and menstruation in the places where he was licking. This man who had been the first to notice her in two years. This man whom she might still want next week.

His hands clasped her ass, refused to let her move. Despite the discreet plug, there were juices forming sticky toffee at the tops of her legs. She had never been so utterly exposed. Inside and out. His tongue persisted and she had lost control, had clutched him so she would not fall. Then she came and there was only the smell of sex.

He had remained on the ground before her, letting her ride the speed bumps till her tyres screeched to a halt. She had then watched in fascinated awe, beyond protest, as he gripped the little, blue string between his teeth and pulled it downward. Sex and blood. Blood and sex dripping from her cunt onto the linoleum. He licked, pecked, nibbled at her stubbornly secreting cunt like it was normal.

He stood, locking her eyes with his. A spark of delight. Tiny crimson drips on his lips and in his moustache. He had kissed her again, soft and tender. For the first time in her life she tasted the metal of her own blood.

He had stepped away from her, slowly undressed as she watched. Dark, curly patch of hair on his chest that faded away on his firm abdomen but became a wiry forest below his belly button. His cock long and thin like his body, stretching to greet her as the last of his clothing fell away.

On the bed, he spread his shirt, his neatly pressed trousers. He had lifted her onto his clothes, adjusted her into position on her knees. She had closed her eyes, tried not to think of him looking at her streaming cunt under the harsh 60 watt bulb.

The leather belt had felt cold and calculating against the skin of her ass as he rubbed it up and down her crack, across her slit. She had tensed, bit her lip, buried her face into the pillow. Infinite seconds of time as he stroked her with the belt. Deliberate, firm movements then the emptiness of no touch at all. She thought she heard the swish of air as he raised the belt then swept it with precision so that it smarted against both ass cheeks. She had flinched into the pillow but her ass had instinctively risen higher in supplication.

Each lash had been a welcome agony. Eight. Nine. Uneven pauses between each so that she could not prepare for the contact. Before the tenth meeting of hide against hide, he had slipped his thumb into her mouth. The crack of the belt had been cruel and hard. She had bitten into his thumb, teeth into bone. Salt lime as his blood trickled to the back of her throat.

His thumb remained there, his life source flowing into her as she felt his cock glide easily into the slinky depths of her cunt. She had remained static, aware that even the slightest movement would cause him to lose his rhythm within the slippery hollow. He had contented himself with small thrusts sending her to a place where there was only warm contact of his skin against her stinging ass, his blood in her mouth and cock.

It took her by surprise. A sudden warm glow, unbearable pressure in her neck and spine. Then, an eruption in her brain and she floated on a river of red. She had imagined that she watched his seed flow into the river and sink.

Exhausted, she had been unable to rise. He moved around the room, opening windows, wiping her intimate places with a wet sponge, slipping a pad between her legs.

In the morning, she had awoken while he still slept soundly on his back. Gentle, contented breaths of air tickled his moustache. Tiny rivulets of dried blood were tattooed on his stomach. Her blood. She had leaned forward, feather kissed his chest. Then she had crawled to his stomach, tracing the tributaries of her womanhood with her tongue.

When he stayed for days, then weeks and then months, her cycle returned to normal. No medical explanation. On that first morning however, he had awoken with a smile in his eyes.

"We are blood lovers," he had said. "I can never leave."

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Marguerite is a teacher who likes to explore boundaries in her writing as a release from the conservative texts used in schools. She has been published at Clean Sheets and Literotica.

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Curse © 2002 by Marguerite