Girl on the Net

There, I said it. And I apologise in advance, because usually I like to lean in to Halloween a little at this time of year – write a story in which I try to scare you. Something about zombies or werewolves or vampires or sirens luring unsuspecting humans into bringing them fresh prey. But this year, my plans for a story about sex-hungry ghosts or demonic possession went awry. Something malevolent took up residence in my brain, its claws embedded firmly in the part that deals with writing, refused to let me conjure one of those stories. So instead you get this: a pretty standard blog post about why the scent of period blood makes me really horny.

CN: this post contains blood, violence and some elements of non-consent. No men were harmed in the writing of it.

It’s still Halloween: blood is technically on-topic. And though this blood isn’t frightening, it’s primal. Menstruation is a fucking primal thing. The coppery tang of blood on your post-wank fingertips, and the sight of it – bright scarlet and flowing with life and death – smeared on your dildos. The darker rust-colours that stain your sheets.

I fucking love the scent of period blood.

As I write this piece, I am bleeding. It’s a few days after the bleeding started, so of course I am horny as well. My period is always wildly unpredictable – sometimes one after the other, roughly 28 days apart, as the creator intended, and other times hiding for months upon months until suddenly one day I’m sitting on the toilet and I can smell that bitter-sharp tang and realise It Is Time. So the period is unpredictable but the horn? The horn is inevitable. Like clockwork. The day after I’ve come on, the lust starts to drip into my veins just like the blood is dripping from my cunt.

At first, it’ll be an uptick in the need to wank constantly. A mental image – prompted by a chat with a friend and a fantasy so dark I am not sure I can share it on these pages – means I can’t focus on work till I’ve run upstairs and fucked myself eagerly, brutally, till there’s blood on the dildo and my fingertips and smeared on the inside of my thighs. Next up, it’s the desire to fuck anyone and everyone – interactions with people who would previously have warranted a simple raised eyebrow and a ‘store this possibility for later’ suddenly become urgent, like there’s a voice in the back of my head urging me – ‘fuck them NOW, right now.’

I fuck everything, or want to fuck everything. And I wonder if this voice is the same thing that’s already squatting in my brain, claws deep in my creativity, stopping me from writing about ghost-fucks and demons for Halloween. My horn can sometimes feel like it’s a person entirely separate and distinct to the collection of emotions that is ‘me’ – an independent, playfully malevolent entity that’s driving me to fuck this guy in particular. Because yeah, sometimes it really does feel like I’m possessed. Rationality that would have kept me on the straight and narrow if I weren’t bleeding somehow vanishes when I catch the scent of period blood, and for three days my brain can’t wander to anything that doesn’t involve the greedy ingestion of dick.

And his cock was bright red with period blood

Once I fucked a man so hard while I was on my period that when I stood up, his whole crotch was bloody. I remember vividly the way that it looked, as I gripped the arm of the sofa and slammed myself repeatedly – hard, fast, brutal – onto him, sitting heavily on his prick so I could feel it slamming my cervix… on each upstroke I could see the bright red smears of blood painting his cock. And the sight of it was terrifying and good. I felt so fucking powerful.

He came so quickly I didn’t have a chance to come myself, but that only made it better – that he’d lost control despite trying to hold back, as I went feral and milked the spunk from inside him, almost against his will. The saltiness of his cum mingled with the scent of my period blood, and afterwards I stood over him, looking down at the streaks of red on his stomach and upper thighs, and the way his face reflected the strength of what I’d done. It was part-shock, part-awe, and I have memorised every detail of it so I can tap into that power whenever I like.

This time, when I come on my period, the horn drives me harder than it has in the past – I don’t know why. I have no idea how many times I’ve bled over my lifetime – two hundred, perhaps? But this period, for some reason, came with extra helpings of need. Craving. Urgency. As I say, I’m on day three when I write this, and I still feel it in every fibre of my flesh.

So I found a man.

I know, right? I told you I wasn’t gonna get back on the apps just yet, but sometimes you’re hungry and you just really need to eat. I found a man. No one important, I promise. Just this guy whose photos showed an open, trusting face – who said ‘yes’ when I asked if he was OK with blood. Someone whose veins were running with it, and who wanted me to smear my own on him.

When he arrived at the door, I dragged him inside by the collar of his shirt. The surprise on his face reflected the jolt of shock in my own brain – this isn’t like me, I thought, as I pushed him up against the wall in the hallway. He didn’t seem to mind.

Nor did he mind that I hadn’t introduced myself, or offered him a drink or to take his coat off before I was on my knees and swallowing his twitching cock. I should tell you, here, that my front door is glass. Obscured glass, but glass nonetheless. Sucking cock in front of it is not a standard activity. This isn’t like me, I thought, as I dug my fingernails into the flesh of his arse and made him yelp and fuck forward into my throat.

Nor is it like me to grab at the hem of his t-shirt and try to tear it while I’m sucking. But as I say, there’s someonething in my brain. And it felt like the more of his dick I swallowed, the more of my mind I was giving over to this primal, hungry presence. He suggested a move to the bedroom and I leapt at the chance, thinking once he’s there he’ll be more vulnerable relaxed and I can savour all the bits of him that later I’ll want to devour.

I dragged him by the wrist into the bedroom and hurled him onto the bed. Jeans still partway round his thighs from where I’d sucked his cock, that startled/horny look on his face. Dick sticking temptingly out of his fly, just ready for me to eat smear with that tangy hot-copper scent of period blood.

I feel stronger when I’m on my period. Like the blood that’s flowing out of me is only the start of it – there’s more blood, powerful blood, thrumming in my muscles. My thighs, taut and hard and thick from months of cycling, can hold this guy’s body down on the bed so that even if he were to struggle – and he doesn’t struggle, not yet not yet – he wouldn’t be able to escape. His wrists seem so slim, so fragile so eminently snappable as I pin him down and hover over the tip of his twitching prick, ready to envelop him.

It’s not like me, this. Quick fucking, sure, but not dominance. Control. Tyranny. I’d feel bad about it, but by now I’m starting to sense that it’s not my fault. Someone else is inside me, and that someone wants me to do this – and their desire for it is far greater than my will to resist. Somehow my clothes are off (I can’t remember stripping but I must have done) and so now the scent of period blood hangs in the air and it’s so fucking good, so primal, so hot, so full of life and death and pain and pleasure. I don’t think I really am me once I catch the smell of it. I’m someone else. Someone hungry.

He twitches a little between my thighs, tells me ‘ow’ and makes a weak attempt to wrench his wrists from my grasp, but when I smile at him I imagine my teeth sharp and gleaming and position myself so the ache of my cunt is soothed by the smooth, solid head of his cock, he calms down. He’s still looking at me in that shocked way my face what’s wrong with my facebut as I slide so slowly down the shaft of his cock, smearing it liberally in the hot, beautiful scent of period blood, he lets out a small whimper of delight.

This isn’t like me, I think again as I ride him, and this time there’s an answer from within – a kind of pulse that convulses my body. It is so utterly alien that I know the answer is ‘no’ – no I am not me. I don’t know what I am but I am not me. The pulse starts in my cunt and then thumps through the rest of me, twisting my features and searing my muscles with contorted pain. I feel my bones click into unfamiliar shapes, and it hurts so much but I keep riding him. Keep going. His eyes are closed, and that’s good, because I know when he opens them I – no not ‘I’ ‘it’ – will pounce. It’s not just that this isn’t like me, this doesn’t even look like me any more. I glance down with keen eyes at the fingers that are pinching and twisting his nipples and see how long, how white, how sharp so fucking sharp the bones look. How translucent the skin. How the veins are no longer veins, but conduits for whatever has possessed me – disturbed and dark and crawling with malevolence.

Had I willpower, I would resist. It frightens me, after all. But there’s that tang still in the air – the scent of the blood that I’ve made, and the sight of it bright red so fucking red smeared on his flesh. His neck, so slim and birdlike, and this is not like me because normally I’d kiss it but something about the blood and the smell and the thing that twists its claws into my brain and twists my bones into brand new shapes tells me no don’t kiss just bite. Bite. Go on do it bite do what you’re told.

I do not bite. I resist for now. But as he opens his eyes I can see reflected in them the horror of what I’ve become, the twisted shapes and the bones oh God the bones and my eyes there’s something wrong with my eyes. My muscles are made of iron and my fingers are claws and he knows and I know that this is not me. But he knows and I know that this will end worse for him, it has to. I am powerful. I can smell that blood and I am power, he is nothing.

I tell him ‘ssssh’ and put a gnarled finger to his lips. I’m close now, so close, the swell of his dick inside me and the way my blood-dripping cunt clenches around him and the sudden rush of understanding that it’s OK to do this, all of this, whatever I want, because I know now that I am not me, it’s not my fault. That all comes together in a huge wave – terror and delight and permission and above all oh above all hunger hunger.

The pleasure of all of it gushes through my veins, and my cunt twitches tight so fucking tight like I’ll snap him break him destroy him as I come around the prick of this squirming, terrified man. And when he screams, that thing inside my brain screams too, but this time with satisfaction. It feeds off the sound of his fear. Gulps down those noises like they’re nourishment. And I realise then that my resistance is gone. What’s left of me cannot possibly care more about this fuck-greedy stranger than it cares about the creature which lives inside my brain, the one that needs more screams on which to feast.

For reasons of anonymity, I won’t tell you that gentleman’s name. I will tell you, though, that he lives. He’s here beside me in this room. Gagged and bound and smeared with now-dried blood. It’s old but if I close my eyes and concentrate, the tang still haunts the air. And later, when I’m naked, he will choke on it again – that horny, copper tang that means it’s time.

He’s silent for now – he really needs his rest. His body’s limp and spent and his throat is torn from screaming. But the creature will wake up soon.

And I bet it will be hungry.

Obviously I did not fuck a man, smear him in period blood and then retain his limp and broken body for the purposes of feeding screams to a demon. I just couldn’t get any of my fully-fiction pieces to work this year, so I thought it might be easier and more fun to kick off with a real blog post, and have things get gruesome from there. Everything up until ‘I found a man’ is true, everything after that isn’t. You can find more Halloween erotica (including some gorgeous guest pieces) at that tag. You can also read more Halloween erotica over at sponsor site Literotica.