just a taste

Masked and bathed in pink noise, blinded and deafened, your body alive with sensation alone…

… it’s not only touch that is awakened.

The overture, after your breathing has settled down from the third orgasm, is a riband of silk placed upon your lips. When the smooth strip is pulled slowly across them it naturally follows the groove under gravity. The whispering touch makes your perfect lips feel like velvet; the stimulation promotes salivation. Little hot geysers under your tongue prepare you to bite. When you swallow, your bobbing throat strokes against appreciative fingertips.

The desire to bite remains. Lips part, almost of their own accord, and an inward breath cools the tip of your tongue. You are not inherently aware of your fangs until the silk is replaced by a brave fingertip. Where the intense, almost ticklish touch traces across your lips, it also picks out the smooth prominences of your teeth.

Pressure crosses one extended canine without issue, but slows to rest on the point of the other. Pressure increases. Your fang is rooted deeply in the bone of your jaw. You feel the stirring beneath your skin, nerves firing all the way to your nose. The pleasure of a bite, divorced of the pleasure of sinking your teeth into your prey, and from the flavour, and from the swallow.

A slight sideways deviation is enough to slice that fingertip open. Your tooth tip hits shallow bone. Such is your relaxation is it natural to leave your jaw relaxed and let your prey come to you, but were you not riding on pleasure and feeling the dregs of Sian trickle through your ileum, perhaps you could not have remained so passive.

Your tongue becomes a canvas, red on pink. Eight strokes are drawn, an interlocking octagon-star. Blood-taste rides salty, metallic and sweet on your tongue, and its perfume textures the air in your mouth. A soft sigh carries the scent to your nose, giving you a hint of the richness of flavour you crave.

It’s not enough. Your jaw flexes unconsciously in the motion of a bite.

You’d almost forgot it was me out there. The finger is withdrawn and you accept the meagre blood sacrifice with a swish and a swallow. Your mouth naturally falls back open, wider. More, it seems to say.

You get what you want.

What starts as my hand stroking your cheek morphs in one smooth motion to be a wrist held against your lips. Your poised daggers do not hesitate when life is presented to them.

The skin is unstitched by smooth enamel. Feel the sensation of severed flesh sliding past your fangs. The same cut might drill as deep as the buried femoral artery, but here it need dive less than a centimetre. Then, out dances warm crimson blood.

You said it yourself: there is no drink like it. It’s a person. Each pin-head drop contains five million blood cells, and you’re taking a whole mouthful. They make themselves known as a sensation of body on your tongue, providing mouth-watering thickness. Also metal and meat, as the blood finds its way into every crevice of your mouth and in particular the minute grooves spread crazily across the surface of your tongue.

Your sense of taste is keen enough to learn more than that. Hormones pertaining to affection and adoration colour your snack: if you focus, you can literally taste my love for you. A record of my body’s defences against past invaders is written in an awesomely intricate mechanism of cells whose complexity registers only as a faint tang on your tongue.

You swirl my blood around your mouth like a connaisseur tasting wine. As it lingers it thickens, beginning to ripple over your tongue like light caramel. Platelets react to the air in your mouth and develop the sense of meat.

When your watering mouth can hold its morsel no longer you swallow. Your tongue’s motion both forces my blood into your gullet and applies suction to the wound. What an efficient predator you are, my dear Raven!

Because you feed so gently you feed long. Perhaps I only intended to give you a taste. But you savour so intensely the wine of my body that I let you drink pints of me in small mouthfuls. My touch roves the thick swell of your belly, sometimes seeking the growing sac under your ribs, sometimes helping Sian on her way out, sometimes just reveling in the sheer joy of your pudgy, squishy gut.

I pull away when I start to feel dizzy and continue with touch-exploration. But my taste lingers in your mouth and the small meal sits warm in your core, sending coppery gusts up your throat and between your pursed lips.