Chapter 3: Blood on the Sheets
The metallic tang flooded Bette’s mouth, a stark, primal contrast to the usual salt-sweetness of Memphis. She felt the younger woman flinch beneath her lips, a tremor that ran through the soft skin of her inner thigh. Bette didn’t stop. She lapped gently, cleaning the faint, rosy smear, her tongue following the trail up toward the heated core of her.
“Bette, stop, it’s…” Memphis’s voice was a thin wisp of horror.
Bette lifted her head. “It’s normal. A little blood is normal.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, a steady anchor in the panic of the dawn. She saw the fear in Memphis’s wide, dark eyes, the way her hands gripped the ruined sheet. “It’s just a small tear. It looks worse than it is. Lie still.”
Memphis obeyed, her breath shuddering as she let her head fall back. The morning light cut across her belly, illuminating the gentle curve, the shadow between her legs. Bette bent her head again, her touch deliberately clinical at first. She parted Memphis’s lips, examining the tender, swollen flesh. A fresh, slow bead of crimson welled from a tiny fissure.
“See?” Bette whispered, her finger, slick with saliva and blood, tracing the outer edge. “Just here. It’s already stopping.”
Then she lowered her mouth and sealed it over her.
Memphis cried out, a sound tangled between pain and shock. Bette’s tongue was soft, insistent, probing not for pleasure, but for cleansing. She laved at the wound, the coppery taste intensifying, mingling with the deeper, musky flavor of Memphis’s arousal that lingered beneath. It was intimate in a way that felt ancient, this tending. Her own arousal, a low thrum since waking to Memphis’s distress, tightened in her gut.
“You taste like me,” Bette murmured against her, the vibration drawing a gasp. “And you. And life.” She kissed her way upward, bypassing her clit, focusing on the delicate, injured skin. She sucked gently, and Memphis whimpered, her hips shifting.
“Does it hurt?”
“A… a little. It’s sharp. But… your mouth is so soft.”
Bette hummed, shifting her attention. She moved lower, her tongue slipping past the tender entrance, delving into the wet heat that was untouched by blood. She fucked her with her tongue slowly, deeply, reminding her body of the pleasure that lived alongside the pain. Memphis’s whimpers softened into moans. Her hands found Bette’s hair again, not pushing, but holding on.
When Bette felt her muscles beginning to relax, to melt into the mattress, she drew back. She reached for the half-full glass of water on the nightstand, took a sip, and gently trickled it over Memphis, using her fingers to cleanse her further. The water ran pink onto the sheet.
“Sit up for me, baby,” Bette said, her voice husky.
Memphis did, wincing as she moved. Bette stripped the top sheet away, the stain a bold, rust-red flower in the white fabric. She balled it up and tossed it to the floor. The bottom sheet was clean, cool. She guided Memphis back down.
“Now,” Bette said, kneeling between her legs, her own cock stiff and heavy against her abdomen. “Let me make you feel good. Just feel. No pressure.”
She didn’t ask for permission. She simply lowered her head and took Memphis’s clit into her mouth.
The effect was instantaneous. Memphis arched, a clean, sharp cry echoing in the sunlit room. Bette sucked, her tongue circling the hard bud, worshiping it. The pain was forgotten, subsumed by a wave of pure, crackling sensation. Bette’s hands slid under Memphis’s ass, lifting her, tilting her to a better angle. She devoured her, drinking the combined flavors, her own need a fierce, pounding rhythm in her veins.
“Bette… God… I’m gonna come again, I’m gonna…” Memphis’s words dissolved into a stream of fractured syllables.
Bette shoved two fingers inside her, curling them, and Memphis’s cunt clenched around them, tight and velvet-soft. The blood was gone, only slick, desperate heat. Bette fucked her with her hand, her mouth relentless on her clit, and she felt the orgasm seize Memphis, a violent, shaking tempest that seemed to rip through her from the inside out. Her juices flooded Bette’s mouth, sweet and clean now.
As the last tremors subsided, Bette crawled up her body. Her cock, thick and dripping, slid against Memphis’s slippery thigh. Memphis’s eyes, blurry with pleasure, focused on it. She reached a tentative hand, wrapping her fingers around the shaft. She pumped once, slowly, her thumb smearing the precum over the head.
“I want it,” Memphis whispered, her voice ragged. “Even with the hurt. I want you inside.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I need to feel… connected. Please.”
Bette kissed her, letting her taste herself. She positioned herself, the head of her cock nudging at the sore, swollen entrance. She pushed, a micron at a time, watching Memphis’s face. A flicker of pain, then a dazed kind of wonder. She was so tight, the residual tenderness making the fit impossibly snug, almost suffocating.
“Fuck,” Bette gasped, sinking deeper. “You’re gripping me like a fucking vise, baby. So good.”
When she was fully seated, they both stilled, breathing hard. The ache for Memphis was a bright, piercing thing. She began to move, shallow thrusts at first, a gentle sawing motion that made Memphis bite her lip. But then Memphis hooked her legs around Bette’s back, her heels digging in.
“More,” she demanded, her shyness incinerated by need.
Bette fucked her then, in earnest. Deep, penetrating strokes that made the bedframe creak a protest against the wall. Each thrust burned, a sweet, sore friction that tipped Memphis back toward the edge. Bette could feel it, the renewed clenching, the way her body was learning the shape of her.
“You take my cock so well,” Bette grunted, her rhythm becoming ragged, brutal. “Your perfect, tight little cunt was made for this. For me.”
The crude words ignited Memphis. She came again, a sobbing, clenching orgasm that milked Bette relentlessly. The sensation tore Bette’s own climax from her. She drove in one last time, burying herself to the root, and released with a roar, her cum pulsing hot and deep into Memphis’s womb, claiming the emptiness she’d first carved just hours before.
They collapsed, a tangled, sweating heap. Bette’s softening cock slipped out, followed by a trickle of her own release, mixed now with the last vestiges of blood. She didn’t move to clean it. She just held Memphis, their hearts hammering against each other.
The jasmine scent from the garden below finally pierced the haze of sex and blood and sweat. The unopened champagne bottle on the vanity caught the sun, glowing like a promise.
Memphis’s finger traced a random pattern on Bette’s shoulder. “Will it always feel like that?” she asked, her voice small.
“No,” Bette said honestly, her lips against Memphis’s temple. “It will feel different. Sometimes better. Sometimes simpler. Sometimes… more complicated.” She thought of Tina, a sharp, unexpected pang. “But this… this first, raw thing… it only happens once.”
Memphis was quiet for a long time. “I’m glad it was with you.”
The simplicity of the statement undid Bette more than any passionate declaration could have. She tightened her arms around her.
A phone buzzed, insistent, from the floor. Bette knew it was hers. Knew, with a curator’s cold intuition, that it was the gallery. Or Tina. The world was at the door, knocking. The sanctuary of the bed, the sun, the scent, the beautiful, sore girl in her arms—it was already receding, becoming a memory they were making in real time.
“Don’t answer it,” Memphis murmured, nuzzling closer.
Bette closed her eyes. For a moment, she pretended she couldn’t hear it at all.