I watch in fascination as the knife presses against his skin, slightly parting it until his blood shimmers, beckoning me. My first time; I try to be hesitant, to not give my desire away as I lean forward. My mouth meets the wound, licking slightly, before fastening onto his salty flesh, sucking hungrily, trying to coax more of his reluctant elixir. My hands tangle at the back of his hair, unclench, and rest against the back of his neck, my nails lightly dig in as I hold him against me -- not that he is trying to go anywhere. Heart pounding, legs weak with desire, I force myself to move away, making my reluctant lips relinquish his precious gift.
Fetish or passing fancy? I try to pretend something that is not true, not quite willing to admit the reality to the both of them, even though I was sure anyone could see it burning brightly in my eyes.
I watch as he slices another wound on his upper chest, shallow but still alluring. I force myself to sit still as her mouth fastens to the new wound, fighting not to touch him, not to touch her. She hungrily sucks at it, devouring him, marking him. My fists clench involuntarily as I wish that I had the right to mark someone, to mark him. Instead I sit, watching her, envying her every taste, fighting for breath as I watch her face fill with rapture, her gorgeous hair streaming behind her in wild abandon.
At war with myself, with my fantasies and my innate sense of propriety, my never-ending reluctance, I finally succumb to my desires and offer my own flesh in return. Always afraid to hurt myself, scared that I will get carried away and slice too deeply, I silently ask him to do the honour of opening my flesh. Although I have marked myself in the distant past, in a memory that seems a life time away, this is the first time I will be cut in the name of passion.
"Do you trust me?" I'm not sure if it's just my imagination, but his words seem to hold a silent question, one that I can not answer.
"I trust you enough to open my flesh." I try to make the words light, teasing, nonchalant, and as honest as possible. In my head they sound breathy, weak, and I wonder if either of them notice.
His reply is barely heard by the conscious part of my mind as I wait for the blissful pain. Silent until now, she leans forward, her hair spilling against me, as she marvels at my virgin flesh. I decide not to mention the wonders of Polysporin, nor how I have tried for years to pretend that I "outgrew" these desires. If they believe the lies I try to tell myself, who am I to say otherwise?
My skin opens willingly for him, as I knew it would. A shallow wound, but the blood flows from it easily, seemingly as eager for both of their mouths as the rest of me is. Barely coherent as I fight to maintain control, to not lose myself to my desire, I can't tell whose mouth tastes me first. I think hers, but only because awareness returns to me as his mouth, filled with wine, covers mine, filling the wound with a wholly inexperienced, yet very pleasurable, tingling sensation. Sucking hard, he lets the wine clean my flesh as he marks it, before pulling back and letting the wine drip down the length of my arm. Leaning forward once more, he licks a long line up my arm, cleaning only part of his mess and letting the rest trickle down my fingers, becoming a sticky reminder of his touch.
Time blurs as she offers herself, completing the triangle of blood. Despite her protests that he should slice her shoulder, as he sliced his and mine, he slices two shallow lines across her upper chest. Once again I have the privilege of first taste. Her blood explodes within my mouth, stronger and more plentiful than his. The sweet taste of her skin mingles with the blood as I taste her, my nails once again holding the back of her head against me, forcing her despite her willingness, tracing invisible patterns into her creamy flesh as I savour each and every moment, each drop that I taste. Once again I unwilling force myself to step back, to retreat into myself slightly, trying to hide the pleasure that leaves my legs weak and my head spinning.
Reopening the wound expertly he feeds from her, his passion clear on his face, hers even clearer, as they are swept into the sensations that still threaten to overcome me. Grateful for their passionate oblivion, I fight to stop my body as it shakes with pent-up desire. Shivers of emotion visibly run down my spine as I watch them, unable to stop from looking, as he cleans her wound just as he cleaned mine.
Suddenly knowledge dawns on me as I watch her fill her mouth with the wine and clean his chest wound, sucking hungrily on his skin one last time before pulling away. Our eyes meet and my heart accelerates to a dangerous speed as I realize I get to taste him once more. Immediately realizing my cooler will not cleanse as well as the wine, I instead take his cup and drink slightly before filling my mouth with the wine.
My lips settle against his flesh slowly, trying to prolong the moment. Immediately I begin to suck, still holding the wine in my mouth as I hope for one last taste of his intoxicating liquid. Swirling the wine in my mouth, I lick his flesh, pressing the my tongue into the wound as I tell myself lies about how the deeper I can get my tongue to burrow into the wound, the more likely that the wine will prevent infection. In a fog of passion I try to convince myself that I am simply cleaning his wound, try to deny the fact that I am losing my sanity in the sweet ambrosia of his flesh and blood. My hands wander aimlessly, reluctant to let go, as my tongue continues to work at the newly formed laceration, even though I swallowed all of the wine what seems like aeons ago.
I pull back, forcing reality to slowly return to my passion consumed brain. Smiling we all lean back in our respective seats, allowing the moment to dissolve slightly as we catch our breath. Unsure whether I should thank them or curse them for bringing back the fantasies that it took me years to lock away, I try to watch whatever it was we were watching on television before this began. Failing miserably, I simply try not to watch them as I wonder what the future will hold for the three of us and if I will ever again taste their copper ambrosia exploding inside of my mouth.
In the not so deep recesses of my mind I know that it is not them I want. Although they are beautiful, I consider them no more than friends. Still, this gift has given these two people a place in my life that will never be forgotten.