The Scarlet by Alex Severin
 
The first time.  Do you remember the first time?  I remember it.  I remember it 
in all its glorious, vibrant colour. 
We lay together in that place between wakefulness and blissful sleep, our skin 
exchanging heat and cooling sweat, the once crisp white sheets now moist and 
dishevelled from the labours of our coitus. 
You held me in your arms and I kissed the skin on your neck; wet and salty.  I 
let my lips linger there for a while.  Why?  What was it that I felt then as I 
pressed my mouth hard against your throat?  What was the sensation that aroused 
me so?  It was the throbbing vibration of your pulse, the ebb and flow of life.  
I let my tongue flick back and forth over the raised, feint blueness of your 
succulent vein. 
Something stirred in me; something awoke.  Why it should have happened just then 
I do not know, for how many times have I covered you with my kisses?  How often 
have I caressed you, loved you?  But I cannot mistake that very moment when I 
realised that I wanted to drink of you, sup on your very essence, your life, 
your blood. 
Oh God, I remember the passion I felt for you then, like no other sensation I 
had ever experienced and you know I have always loved you fiercely.  And this 
new heightened passion terrified me!  The very thought of drinking from you made 
my mouth flow with juices, made every nerve in my body seem to vibrate with 
excruciating want, with aching desire, with terrible need. 
But how could I tell you?  How could I tell you, my eternal angel that I wanted 
to cut through your perfect pale skin with the keen edge of a glinting steel 
razor blade?  How could I tell you that I wanted to make you hurt, make you cry 
out in pain?  How could I tell you that I wanted to watch you bleed?  How could 
I tell you that I wanted to lap the blood from a gushing pain-lined wound?  How 
could I tell you that?  How? 
You awoke from your slumber.  You cupped my face in your hands, looked deeper 
inside me than I have ever looked inside myself, searching for some clue, some 
indication of what thoughts, what fantasies I was immersed in; you know me so 
well that I could not hide it from you, though I tried. 
‘What is it you desire?’ you asked me, your beautiful face masked with concern.  
You felt my yearning for something and knew that I found it hard to bare.  You 
knew there was a thirst in me that must be slaked. 
And so I confided in you, I poured my heart out to you, whispered to you through 
the darkness of our room, unable to look at you, fearing that you would turn 
away from me, you would be repulsed and disgusted by me, that your love for me 
would wither and die in an instant.   But you closed your eyes, slowly; was that 
a smile playing about you lips? 
You left the room.  My head filled with thoughts of you dashing around the 
house, collecting belongings from here and there.  I thought that you would come 
back into our bedroom and throw them in a suitcase, hurriedly stuff clothes and 
shoes in on top of them and tell me that you would be back sometime to pick up 
the rest of your things. 
But you did not - you came back and stood over me.  A sliver of moonlight 
slipped through the hastily closed drapes and found the gleaming edge of a razor 
blade in your hand.  You lay down then and, with a smile, handed me the blade. 
You bent your head back and to one side, exposing your throat to me.  The love I 
felt for you at that moment, the trust you were showing me, the absolute trust, 
the devotion. 
I drew the blade across your skin ever so gently; a keen caress that made you 
draw in your breath and hold it, an exquisite, pristine-clean pain as the blade 
slid effortlessly under your skin and opened you up to me. 
I stared in awe at the crimson stream of blood that ran down your throat, 
entranced by its slow, so slow, progression.  I ran my index finger up the 
length of the little red stream and rubbed it between my finger and thumb, 
savouring its sticky, rich texture.  You watched me as I stared at it then 
pulled me gently to the wound on your throat. 
It seemed like forever, that moment between my longing and feeling your soft, 
delicate, fragile skin beneath my lips.  I closed my eyes as I felt the heat 
from your wound and slid my tongue under the skin.  You gasped, under the 
influence of that potent cocktail - pleasure and pain.  You gripped my hair in 
both hands; softly moaning and breathing heavily in my ear as you do each time 
we make love. 
You pressed my kiss deeper and deeper; as I tasted your blood for the first 
time, your sweet, thick potion intoxicated me.  I new that I would never be able 
to live without this, this new sensation, this new love that we had found 
together, this dark and dangerous passion that I knew we would indulge in 
forever - our blood fetish. 
You rose up above me then, pushed me onto my back and bled into my eager mouth; 
you kissed me hard tasting your own blood on my lips, licking it from my mouth, 
my face.  I cannot begin to describe the voluptuousness of the sensation I felt 
as you cut me and drank from me, drew my life into you, tasted me.  My God, I 
love you. 
And as you lay next to me now, I gaze at you in your slumber. Your perfect 
aching beauty swelling my heart, stinging my eyes.  I run my fingers over the 
tiny scars I have made on your skin; I touch myself; I love the texture of my 
own scars too - the little raised lines that you have made on me - the wounds of 
our desire. 
You stir under my touch and open your eyes, the tips of my first two fingers 
pressing on my favourite vein in your neck; I feel the pumping of your dark 
heart, that sensuous throb that makes my skin burn and my soul thirst, my body 
ache. 
And I look into the dark of your eyes and see myself reflected there, see the 
hunger on my face and see you smile that smile - the one which tells me you know 
what I want now, the smile that says you want it too.  And I love you for giving 
me this.  And you love me for giving it to you, this scarlet bliss.

© Alex Severin 1998