Drink­ing From Her

I par­took in some intense acts when I was in vanilla rela­tion­ships and thought that BDSM was all about chains and leather and fash­ion. It never occurred to me that what we did was kinky or taboo, just… think­ing out­side the box, if you will.

The same vanilla lover that was my first fist­ing part­ner was also quite pre­oc­cu­pied with vam­pires. One day she con­fessed that she fan­ta­sized about being fed upon, to have her blood sucked from her, and she asked if I would be will­ing to explore that with her.

I thought it was a lit­tle out there, but it was some­thing near and dear to her and she had taken a huge risk con­fess­ing that to me, so I went at it with gusto. Lit­tle did I real­ize how pro­found that act would turn out to be.

We made a womb for our­selves; a dark, warm room with can­dles and soft music. I numbed her breast just left of her left breast, close to her heart for sym­bol­ism, using an ice cube and then I cut her with a razor blade. I laid down in her lap and she wrapped her arms around me and I nursed her blood from her breast.

At first I thought it was roman­tic but the emo­tional impact of the con­nec­tion and the inti­macy of nurs­ing and tak­ing her blood hit me like a steam­roller as it was happening.

It was more than sex. It was more than even mak­ing love. It was one of the most pro­found spir­i­tual expe­ri­ences either of us had ever had. I remem­ber it vividly to this day and I remem­ber the thought that entered my mind:

I am drink­ing her soul.

There were no leather or whips or chains involved, so I never thought of it as any­thing kinky. I was quite sur­prised when I finally learned more about the com­mu­nity that they were talk­ing about the things I took for granted as some­thing that belonged to them. Spank­ing was one of those things, and fist­ing was another.

One of my dear­est friends, sushi_​wa, once said that my writ­ing has a vam­pir­i­cal qual­ity to it. I can see where she got that because I am enam­ored with the metaphors of feed­ing from my vic­tim, or nurs­ing from her. It is because that is very much how it feels, even though it is emo­tional feeding.

Drink­ing my lover’s milk was an incred­i­ble feel­ing as well; tak­ing phys­i­cal nour­ish­ment from her while while at the same time feed­ing from her, emotionally.

I hear that some men find lac­ta­tion a turn-​off or even repul­sive. I can­not under­stand that. Giv­ing of her­self and off her­self is one of the ulti­mate fem­i­nine qual­i­ties; how can you not be attracted to every sin­gle expres­sion of her fem­i­nin­ity? Espe­cially one that incred­i­bly magical?

Of course, fuck­ing her while drink­ing her milk is just plain hot. There are no poetic descrip­tions I can think of to make that jus­tice. It is just freak­ing sexy. And when you just play with her breasts and your palms come off all wet, or when she’s rid­ing you and you reach up to hold and squeeze her breasts and milk trickle down your fore­arms, or when she leans for­ward and grazes her nip­ples to your chest and leaves wet trails behind. Or how she always smells sweetly of milk. Yeah, it’s pretty neat.

There was just one draw­back with it for me, though; I’m mildly lac­tose intol­er­ant. Sigh. I can have a cup of ice cream or a cream-​based dessert per day with­out prob­lems, but if I have more than that I need to take a Lac­taid to help out. A woman’s milk has a very high con­cen­tra­tion of lac­tose (appar­ently it helps with brain devel­op­ment) so it hit me pretty hard and I didn’t always want to stop to chew a pill as a gas­tro­nomic pro­phy­lac­tic of sorts.

The act of drink­ing her blood and drink­ing her milk under­lines how impor­tant the one that sur­ren­ders is. It is inside her that it all hap­pens and it is from her that every­thing comes. She’s the giver and she’s the one offer­ing her­self on the sac­ri­fi­cial altar of your desire to be consumed.

But it’s not about being con­sumed, per se; it’s about giv­ing. About giv­ing of her­self. Of relin­quish­ing her­self and through that, bathing in her own inner radi­ance. In peace.

It is a two-​way street. It is not just about tend­ing to her needs and releas­ing the pres­sure to ease her urgency. She needs it to hap­pen with mean­ing. She needs to be devoured, to be taken, to be used. She needs the one who releases her, who gives her wings, who brings her home, to need her as much as she needs him.

She needs him to find his own sal­va­tion and redemp­tion in her surrender.

It is as if her breasts are engorged and filled to the break­ing point, aching, antsy to be released. Lac­ta­tion is a per­fect phys­i­cal metaphor for that state of mind. Yet she can­not release the pres­sure her­self. And even more than a release, she needs to give. She needs to one who releases the pres­sure to see her, and find nour­ish­ment in every­thing she has to give.

He can­not just release the pres­sure and leave it stream­ing into the void, hit­ting the ground; she needs him to cher­ish what she gives as much as he cher­ishes her, and she needs him to starve for what she gives as much as she is aching to release what she has to give.

I seem to be ram­bling here a bit, so I will con­tinue on the same path. The topic of feed­ing and drink­ing and vam­pires makes me remem­ber a dream I had a long time ago, when the spi­der was in my life.

In my dream I was mak­ing love to (or fuck­ing; I am not sure) a female vam­pire. She was pow­er­ful and looked a lit­tle like Lady Heather from CSI. She was rid­ing me while I was lay­ing there pas­sive. For some rea­son it was impor­tant that she got what she needed from me or else some­thing ter­ri­ble would hap­pen to her. In my dream-​logic, she needed me to pour myself into her.

In the end, she had rid­den me to cli­max and the moment of the dream that I keep remem­ber­ing is that she latched on to my throat and drank from me at the same time as I was pump­ing my seed into her body, fill­ing her and sat­ing her in a way that nei­ther of the acts could do by itself.

I remem­ber once writ­ing a piece about bit­ing and punc­tur­ing the skin of a milk-​engorged breast and drink­ing her blood-​laced milk. I sup­pose that was my turn­ing the tables on my vam­pire dream.

That piece was lost along with hun­dreds of haikus and many other writ­ings sev­eral years ago. I have tried in vain to recre­ate it, but my cre­ative writ­ing is pri­mar­ily a stream of con­scious­ness, a process that does not lend itself to recre­ation, really. I hardly even proof­read the stuff I write.

And now I think I am done rambling…