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Blood of the Goddess
by Ann Regentin © 2004

His hands were shaking as he lit the joint, and the first puff was for him, herbal courage.  Then he held it for her and she closed her eyes as she drew on it. "Thanks," she sighed as she exhaled. "You're so sweet."

"You can have the next one."

"Thanks." She took another hit and so did he, a small one.  He needed a bit more , but too much and he'd forget why he was doing this in the first place.

But he did forget for a while, as his heightened senses picked up all kinds of little details, the slight scratchiness of his over-new sheets, the incredible blackness of her hair, the smell of her, fucked and unwashed, when she smelled like girl instead of soap and perfume.  He wondered if he stank to her.  If he did, she never said.  He gave her the joint again.

She waved vaguely at it. "I'm okay."

"Come on, one more." He was stoned enough, but he wasn't sure she was.

She frowned, puzzled. "Why?"


She smiled, pure mischief. "You're trying to tell me something, aren't you."

"Yeah, so have another hit."

"All right." She took the joint and inhaled deeply, held it, let the smoke curl lazily from her nostrils. "Okay, what is it."

He was committed now, and he wished he'd kept his mouth shut, let this chance pass as he had so many others.

"Come on," she said. "How bad can it be?"

How little you know, he thought.

"Come on." She curled into him, ran her hand over his cheek. "Tell me."

The high vanished, drowned by the dual misery of needing her to know and knowing what would happen when she did.  Probably there wasn't enough marijuana in the world to buffer this one. "Blood," he whispered.


A little louder, come on! Just tell her! "I like blood." Better, maybe.

"You like what?"

"Blood." It was out now; might as well roll with it.



A tiny snort of laughter. "In what context?"

"Have another hit." He was stalling and he knew it.

"All right." Another hit, a long one, he loved just to watch her breathe, the way her breasts rose and fell with it. "Think I can handle it now?"

"If you can't now, you never will," he muttered as he took the remains of the joint from her, held it to his lips, and inhaled.


"Never mind." He carefully crushed the end out in an old Altoids tin.

"Okay, so back to the blood." She leaned against his shoulder, drifting happily. "Are you thinking of it as an ornament or a condiment? Or a main course?"

All three? "Sexually.  It turns me on."

"It turns you...omigod!" She doubled over in a lazy laugh. "It turns you on.  What is this, an Anne Rice trip or something?"

If he'd still been a boy, what he felt would have been the first wellings of tears.  As it was, it was a knot in his throat that nearly choked him. "No, I'm serious."

"You're serious?"

He risked a look at her.  Incredulity, he decided, wasn't much better than revulsion. "Yes."

"This is what you've been trying to tell me? That you're sexually aroused by blood?"

"Yeah." Although just then, sexual arousal by any means seemed like a pipe dream.

"He's a vampire!" She was giggling uncontrollably. "Welcome, boys and girls, to sex in Transylvania!"

The tears throbbed in his sinuses, threatening escape. "Don't make fun of me!"

Her giggles subsided, but not entirely. "It's your own damned fault! You know I get silly on pot."

Oh, God, right! So she did, very relaxed but also very silly. "Shit! Yeah, I know.  I'm sorry."

"I'm not." She was still cuddling with him, which was something, and she was still smiling. "I like being stoned.  But I think this would make me laugh even if I wasn't high.  Blood! God! Of all things."

"Let's not talk about it right now." He was trying to salvage it, but he knew his chances were damned slim.  He would have to leave her, if she didn't leave him first, and he liked her.

"I can't talk about anything sensibly right now.  But jeeze...blood?

Why had he told her? Why did he tell anyone? Someone once said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  Even if the blood thing didn't qualify him, his behavior about it did.  He needed to learn to stay in the closet, preferably deep in the closet. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, no, I'm glad you said something.  That's honest.  Honest is good." It would have been more credible if she'd been able to stop giggling.

"Can we talk about something else?" Every time he opened his mouth, he regretted it one way or another.

"Like what?"

"Like this." He bent his head and ran the stud in his tongue over her nipple.  Maybe he could coax one more night out of her.

Afterward, she lay on her side, her back to him, something they had done a million times before but that night, he read rejection into it.  It wasn't going to go away, and the press of her against his chest gave him no comfort.  It wouldn't go away, but she would.  They always did.  He lay awake, staring out the window at the streetlight, letting sleep creep up on him inch by inch.

Usually when she woke she rolled over to kiss him, but that morning she stayed where she was and he stroked her hair. "I freaked you out last night," he said. "I'm sorry."

"No!" She said it too quickly, but then she shrugged and turned to face him, her eyes militantly neutral. "Whatever.  I mean, at least it's not diapers.  I used to work in a nursing home and I just can't get sexual about diapers.  So what, do you really bite people?"

"No! Jesus, no! That would be gross.  Anyway, the real Dracula didn't bite people."

A small smile. "Yeah, I know, he impaled 'em.  Vlad the Impaler.  So is it knives then? Do you like cutting?"

He hated it, that people assumed that he liked to inflict pain. "No.  It's really just the blood I need."

She frowned. "Why?"

"I don't know." The eternal unanswered question, at least as far as his life was concerned.  No matter what he did, he always came back to it.  Maybe he should leave his brain to science, and somebody someday could cut that part of it out.

"Some kind of primal scene, maybe, like your mother cut her hand when you had a hard-on? Or did you walk in on her changing a tampon at some critical developmental stage."

"God, no!" The endless psychological speculation drove him just as crazy as the revulsion. "I don't fucking know, okay? I just like it."

"You always know when I have my period."

"Yeah." He kept track, but he didn't need to.  He could smell it on her.

"Because you like it."

"Yeah." He was flayed before her now, there was nothing left to expose. "Because I like it."

She wore a contemplative look that could have meant anything. "Let me think about it, okay? Wait...would you, like, leave me over this or something?"

"No! Of course not." He wanted to believe it.  He liked her.

She sighed. "Yeah.  Okay." Then she glanced at the clock and sat up abruptly. "Look, I have to go.  Can I call you later?"

"Sure." He knew what that meant, though, and his heart sank.  She was gone, even before the door closed behind her.

But she did call, invited him to her place, and he about keeled over when he walked into her apartment.  Her tiny living room was elaborately decorated with filmy fabrics and lit candles of conflicting scents.  Her hair was held up by a lot of fancy barrettes. "What the hell is all this?"

"Atmosphere." She was wearing a translucent dress with a ropy belt, all white, and diamonds sparkled in her nose and lower lip.

"I don't need all this." He gestured around him.  It looked like the haunt of a spectacularly fraudulent medium.

"I do." He face was set, but the corners of her mouth kept twitching. "Otherwise I'm going to die laughing."

"Look, if you really don't want to..."

"No, hey, I'm willing to try anything.  But if I can accommodate you, you can accommodate me.  Fair?"

He knew her fondness for drama. "Yeah, fair.  What's the scene?"

"This," she said, her voice dropping, "is a very special initiation and you have to be worthy.  Can you do it?"

Right then? Probably not, but he didn't want to lose her.  If this was what she needed, he would give it to her if he could. "Yes."

"We'll see.  Take off your clothes."

He stripped, embarrassed by his penis, which had all the rigidity of overcooked spaghetti.


He did, smothering something very close to a giggle.  It would be him who died laughing at that rate.

"Don't!" Her bare heel pushed against his forehead. "You have to earn it, remember? Now kiss me."

He took her foot in his hands, and his cock twitched, rose.  Her toenails were painted deep red.

She tied his hands behind his back with one of her filmy scarves and made him lick her to orgasm as she stood in front of him.  Then she untied him and made him fuck her to another with one of her dildos, the space alien one that no human form would ever imitate.  It always made him feel a bit inadequate that it was her favorite and being asked to use it that way bordered on humiliation, but the desperate need to please her, by any means possible, took root at the base of his brain and spread through every nerve in his body.

God, he'd always thought maybe she had a bit of it in her, not every woman owned boots with steel heels, but he never knew he wanted it.  It made him crazy knowing that everything he needed was in her hands and that if he made one wrong move, she could snatch it all away.  Rebellion raged in his balls and his cock leaked drop after drop of anxious anticipation.  He became hyperaware of her, attuned to every slight change in mood and arousal, and when she asked for a third orgasm, he found he could give her a fourth right on its heels, push her harder than he'd ever dared to try before.  He'd become part of her, he didn't even need to read her mind.

"All right," she said, sitting up, still gasping.  Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. "You pass.  Sit still."

He bit his lip as she reached into a black velvet bag and his heart leaped into his throat as she withdrew a hypodermic needle.  The point shone in the candlelight, became the absolute center of the room.  She looked it over carefully, inspecting it for imagined flaws, letting him see her holding it, playing with it.  Then she pulled a rubber band onto her arm, made a hard fist, and a blue line came to life on the back of her hand.  He watched, rapt, as she held her breath and slid the needle carefully under her skin.

She hit the vein on the first try, but she was clumsy and the needle took forever to fill, a slow, cautious welling of rich scarlet.  He watched, hypnotized, licking his lips, his cock so hard it hurt, as she carefully eased the plunger back, almost as if she was afraid to take out too much too quickly.  The delay maddened him.  She was going to do it; he wanted it now.

When the barrel was full, she pulled the needle out, took the rubber band off and pressed her finger over the tiny prick-mark.  After a minute, she assessed the damage and put her finger in her mouth, sucking off the blood.  He wanted to cry.

"Lean back," she said.

He obeyed, silent.  His cock stood rigid, trembling, waiting.  She held the needle over it and pushed down on the plunger.

A single drop fell, cooling slightly in the air before it hit his engorged glans, tracing a sweet, terrible trail down the side.  He bit back a snarl, felt his balls draw up.

"Do you want to taste it?" she whispered.

"Please!" He opened his mouth and she let a little fall on his tongue, the blood of the Goddess, sweet and pure, and he savored it as she went back to his cock.

It was pure hell.  She tortured him drop by drop, letting each one run down his pulsing shaft until her blood clogged the needle.  Then she pulled the plunger out and let the rest spill thick and glorious onto his cock.  She wrapped her hand around his shaft, her own blood to lube a hand-job.  There wasn't enough and it was too sticky but he didn't care because it was the sight that did him in far more than her stroke.  He came with an agonized cry, his whole body tense, shooting so hard that he missed them both and one of the candles sizzled.

"Jeeze," she said, her voice soft with awe.

"Hey." He sat up and reached for her, acutely aware of the stains on his skin, so much better than when she had her period, so much sweeter as a gift. "You okay?"

"Yeah.  That was really intense."

"Yeah." He kissed her, euphoric. "I love you."




She said nothing more and he panicked.  Had he said it too soon?

Then she smiled.  No, she was still playing with him.  God, she was wicked! Her breath tickled his ear as she leaned into him. "I love you, too, you sick fuck."

His cock was starting to itch.  He knew exactly what kind of mess it was and he knew he should clean up, let her clean up, but not yet.  Not just yet.  Instead he lay on his back, pulled her down to him, and laughed with joy as she held her bloody hand to his lips.

© 2004 Ann Regentin. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Who is Ann Regentin? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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