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Jack had ever been shy of violence, a trifle squeamish of blood. But then he’d been born with that privilege.
Anne had been born a bloodletting.
She didn’t mind the iron of it split across her teeth in a fight, didn’t mind the stain of it splattered over her clothes after a take, didn’t mind the slow ooze of it in a slow-healing wound on her knuckles after a brawl. From her own cunt it was an inconvenience, that’s all.
But Anne was never in her life as bloodthirsty as when Max’s monthlies came. In the days before, Max's body seemed always to bloom, her tits swelling up out of her bodice and her belly going soft. She went ripe as a mango, as if her skin would split around her own swelling sweetness, and she was as sensitive to Anne’s touch as if it really would. Even that drove Anne wilder than it should—that Max’s body should be so inviting to her and yet so easily harmed, even as Anne could hardly think for how badly she wanted her.
And then the blood came. Anne knew when, always, if Max was with her—Anne saw her squirm, caught the ripe-earth scent on her, felt her cheeks grow hot as Anne’s lust finally caught up with her. Then the pain began too, not from Anne’s too-rough hands but from deep inside Max herself.
But this pain could be assuaged; this pain could be convinced to loosen its hold. All one had to do, Anne had learned, was to reach in and rub it out, just as simply as one soothed a sore ankle or a muscle-bound shoulder.
Most blood was barely noticeable to Anne, an ignorable inconvenience. But Max’s blood, no—that was slick and hot and rich, a boon.
It was the second day of her monthlies and Max woke slow; as proprietress she now had that luxury, to take the rest she needed. And Anne stayed with her in bed, a hand warm and soothing on the small of her aching back, until Max began to stir and her glossy eyes opened.
“Ma chère,” Max said, wincing as she rolled to face Anne. Anne kissed her deeply, already coming to her knees to ease Max onto her back, pulling her feet up flat so that her knees bent and her back curved gently. Anne held herself above Max’s belly and suckled at her swollen tits, pulling and licking until Max began to rock beneath her, pressing her cunt against Anne’s belly.
They slept nude, even bleeding—the brothel’s linen had seen worse—and so Max’s blood slicked Anne’s body too. Anne pressed her face between Max’s tits, licking the salty skin between them, beneath them, surrounding her face with her lover’s ample flesh. Leaning aside on an elbow she returned to one nipple, laving her tongue over it flat, grazing it with her teeth, sucking it hard into her mouth, and slid her hand down to Max’s slick cunt.
Two fingers into the heat of her—Max could take it, would’ve begged for it soon anyway, why not give her what she wanted? Her cunt was a swollen, open thing on these days anyway, needy with ache and want. Anne sucked idly at her tit, nosed at the side of it, up into the hair under her arm, and massaged her fingers firmly up the front wall of Max’s cunt. Again, slow; already Max was breathless, her knees falling open; and a third time, a little firmer still, a little slower still; and Max ground her hips down onto Anne’s hand.
Anne licked the sweat from under her arm, the taste of it lingering in her mouth, and then moved down Max’s body to settle between her knees. She settled again on her elbow, that arm wrapping around Max’s thigh to rest on Max’s lower belly. Her thighs were streaked red; her curls glistened slick and rust. Anne watched her fingers fucking into her, palm up, and added a third, pressing the pad of her thumb to Max’s clit. Swollen already, the little bud peeking out from its place when Anne pulled gently above the mons.
She set her mouth there and licked, feeling Max clench and gush around her fingers. Anne fucked her slowly, sucked her slowly, until Max began to rut against her face.
She lifted her head, withdrew her fingers, and grinned at Max where she lay gasping, glaring.
“Anne. I cannot take your cruelty today, ma chère.”
Anne bent and fucked her tongue deep into Max’s cunt, thumbing insistently at her clit, and Max keened. Anne growled into her cunt at the iron taste of her, an ore-rich stream on some humid coast.
She wished she had something pithy to say when she raised her head, but she wasn’t Jack—she just said, “Look at me.” And Max did, but only for a moment, until Anne slid three fingers back into her and fucked her hard and steady, and Max’s eyes rolled shut.
Anne felt the blood on her mouth and chin, on her cheek where she’d nestled in the juncture of Max’s thigh. “Look,” she said, and Max looked at her until her eyes went glassy. “Mon monstre,” Max murmured, her voice rising into a whine, and Anne bowed her head and laved at her clit until she spent.
Afterward Max was drowsy, giddy, at ease in her body once more. All the same she said, “I know you aren’t finished, ma chère. Take back what you need from me.”
And so Anne moved up her body and straddled Max’s reddened cunt, one leg over her hip and the other between her legs. With a hand on Max’s thigh and the other on her tits, her neck, her belly, Anne rode her, spreading rich red pleasure over both their bodies.