Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I had forgotten we had negotiated blood.

Or, more accurately, I had put it from my mind.

I knew he had the scalpels. I knew he was going to use them. I just didn’t think he was going to take them out and cut me right then. No warning. No preparation. Just sharp edges and instant fear.

The irony is that I’m the one with a fetish for blood. I don’t get to play with it that often. The part of my mind that takes responsibility for my own and my partner’s safety usually objects, but it is exciting. Talking about it with him, thinking about it, was an enormous turn on, but then it actually happened and my overwhelming emotion was terror.

One little line.

A whimper.

Another little line.

Biting my lip.

A third.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

A fourth.

“You can.”

Five. Six. Seven. Eight little lines, and then it was over.

Fear evaporated, now I smile every time I look in the mirror to see them gracing my skin.