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Kristi's Crypt

•  Blood Bags

   ©1996  Word Count: 850

• It started with blood bags from the hospital. My boyfriend worked as a hospital porter, and somehow managed to steal those transparent containers of people's blood; sometimes the substitute (which was no less good), but often the real thing. Apparently he spent some of his time in the operating theatres, garbed in plastic and well washed, cleaning up after operations. That led to fun, too, his gloved hand exploring me, caressing me. Or I could wear a surgeon's mask as he took me, sucking air through it as I came; he said he liked to have most of my face covered sometimes so that he could concentrate on my eyes (and what wonderful things he said about them, and what wonderful things he did to provoke them).
  
  But then came the blood. We would buy cheap sheets from the market and lay them over plastic in the spare bedroom. And he would massage me, and I him, gently spreading the blood over us, drawing patterns on our skin, him licking at my blood-covered breasts, me sucking his blood-covered penis. Of course it's risky, but we never were ones to be too afraid of these things (although we did the double AIDS test thing before forgoing a condom). I'd been surprised and pleased that he liked to have sex with me when my blood provided much of the initial lubrication, and things just went on from there.
  So when we could, maybe once every couple of weeks, we would make love in red, illustrating our desires on each other, making tracks of our positions on the bedsheets. I don't know whether he liked the taste as I did, or just did it for the eroticism, which I enjoyed too. But in time I began to need it, like the gentle one-per-day cigarette addiction I had been nursing for a couple of years. If it took more than two weeks to get the next blood bag I would being to cut short my work hours, go home and smoke extra cigarettes, masturbate myself on the site of our adventures (not that he ever said no when offered sex; this was just a time-filling, distracting thing - something powerful enough to drive out the craving). And then he got sacked.
  
  They found him with a blood bag on him as he left one night, and that was that. It had already been 17 days (I was counting them by now, asking him when he got in at night if he'd managed to get some blood, feigning a casual attitude but unable to restrain myself). I was desperate. And that night I dragged him into the spare room to make love, on the new sheets which we had no blood to stain. He seemed not to understand my need, and when I suggested using our own blood - cutting ourselves for our pleasure - he looked at me hard and said it was far too dangerous.
  
  So I reigned in my need, took up smoking full-time, and made love to him like a crazy thing at night, sitting on him, impaling myself from every angle and in every orifice. He was squeamish, even at some of these things, but didn't need much encouragement even so. But he didn't understand why I needed to do it, thought that somehow the blood had liberated me from my dislike of anal sex, my distaste for his sperm, when the pain, and sometimes the pleasure, were in fact all that could distract me from the longing, the emptiness in my stomach, the need in my groin.
  
  And of course it got too much (you know that, don't you, reader? I've not been trying to hide it after all). I bit him. I bit the underside of his wrist as he took me one night, my head against pillows, my sex offered up to his pounding manhood (ah, what a word). The blood spurted and he shouted at me, I don't remember, but I held on, you see, and bit deep, and clasped my vagina around him. He pulled my head back leaving a chunk of him in my mouth which I chewed, his flesh tasting of the heavenly liquid, and he fell back and lay on the floor, making lots of stupid noise and grasping his wrist from which so much blood was being wasted.
  
  I spat the skin out and kneeled, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he crawled away at first, then told me to get an ambulance.
  
  I stood, and had to move past him to get to the door, but the blood was too much and I bent over him from above and pushed his head to the floor. I bit his neck, hard, feeling him struggling underneath me, but it seemed to stop in no time at all, and he lay there, white and grotesque in death, the blood drying on him, and I was full of him, so wonderfully full.
  
  
  
  ~The End~
  
  
  Please do not republish without permission.

  Email the author:John Cornelius