Blood in a Kinky Context: My Blood Kink Explained

A white person's face (mine) with blood streaming from each nostril, because I had a nosebleed and it gave me blood kink feelings. I have a nose ring and a lip ring, and I'm very cute.

Note: This post discusses blood, including menstrual blood and bleeding as a result of self-harm, in the context of exploring my own blood kink. If those are hard topics for you, give this one a miss – and maybe check out some of my other posts on kink instead.


Blood, generally speaking, stays inside of people.

There are two notable exceptions to this. The first is when an injury is sustained which causes bleeding, and this is generally seen as a bad thing. It alarms the person injured and those around them, and the blood is usually cleaned up once the flow is stemmed. The second notable exception is menstruation, wherein a secret kind of blood is kept inside a person’s underwear, disguised with scented hygiene products and disposed of as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

Humans are often freaked out by blood (their own or other people’s) because, instinctively speaking, blood signals danger to us. There are additional layers of shame and misogyny attached to menstrual blood, as well as a layer of educated concern about infection transmission attached to any blood at all. Some people faint at the sight of blood, and this is easy to understand.

I am intrigued by the sight of blood, which is less straightforward.

I’ve always been fascinated by the hot, redder-than-red liquid that comes out of me in various contexts. I have a vivid memory, from when I was around eight, of watching my face in a hand mirror as I stretched my bottom lip so that the dry skin on it cracked and a huge, glistening orb of blood rose to the surface. I licked it up and enjoyed the taste, but I knew it was weird at least enough to refrain from mentioning it to anybody.

When I menstruate, I interact with the blood. I don’t just rip my pad from my gusset or dump the contents of my menstrual cup with efficiency and detachment – I play with the stuff. I put my finger at the entrance of my vaginal canal and then taste it. I empty my menstrual cup slowly and with reverence, watching my own viscera paint the inside of the toilet bowl crimson.

And when I engage in self-harm (which happens much less frequently than it used to), I play with that blood too. Once I’ve experienced the sharp rush of endorphins that hurting myself can give me, I soothe myself with the taste and texture of my blood. I let it drip. I am slow to dress my wounds because I enjoy what comes out of them. I recognise that that doesn’t sound terribly healthy, but it’s one aspect of self-harm that I think is more self-regulatory than self-destructive. I am, in effect, stimming with my blood. If I had a pint of it readily available, I could self-soothe without necessarily involving self-injury.

A lot of autistic people have strong aversions to, or affinities with, certain colours. I like any deep, rich ones – blood red, navy blue, Cadbury’s purple – and I especially like when they’re translucent, so I can see the world through them. (I own a red glass and a few samples of lighting gels for exactly this reason.) Combined with the distinctive taste and the variety of textures that blood boasts (runny! A little bit thickened! Unsettlingly gloopy!), it makes sense that I have a sensory, autistic fondness for blood.

But of course, in kink, it runs deeper than that. (Is that a blood pun?) For all of the above reasons, the sight of blood is culturally charged, absolutely buzzing with instinct-driven fear and society-driven taboo. When blood happens during kink, it feels profound. Blood is one of the most intimate fluids you can share with another person. As a submissive, bleeding during a scene feels so vulnerable and so dangerous that it acts as a demonstration of obedience and devotion. When I’m topping, seeing my bottom’s blood is a marker of their trust, a sign that they’re giving their body wholly to me. Either way, it’s as delicious psychologically as it is taste-wise.

My favourite ways to bleed in a scene are “accidentally”. I put that word in quotation marks because it’s never truly an accident; the only dominant partner I have who draws blood in scenes does so knowingly (there’s only so many times you can hit someone with a meat tenderiser without breaking skin), and we’ve discussed fluid transmission and our respective STI status very, very thoroughly. But I love bottoming, submitting, in a scene where someone beats me so hard that I bleed without fully expecting to, so lost in the sensation of getting hurt that the blood is a pleasant surprise at the end. I like bleeding as a secondary outcome to a scene, something my dominant partner is almost indifferent about – I like the sense that my bleeding isn’t terribly important. I think that might come from years of self-harm, when my bleeding was terribly important to my mum, my friends and my doctor, but it’s also a side-effect of objectification. Think, “I don’t really care that you’re bleeding on the sheets; I wanted to beat you, and I did. Now, I’m going to fuck your throat, and then we’re going to put a load of laundry on.”

My own menstrual blood appearing during sex is incidental to me unless I get (or am “forced”) to lick it off some fingers, a toy or a cock, in case you were wondering.

I think what I love most about bleeding in a kinky context is how human it makes me, how mortal, how connected to my body. It’s primal. It’s so natural, and yet so starkly surprising because of how thoroughly afraid of it we are and how infrequently we see it as a result. It’s impossible to ignore – even if you get past the saturated red tone of it, it smells like blood – and it can be oh, so satisfying to endure a scene in which I bleed, to ride out the caveman-brained panic of seeing it and to breathe through and ride the highs of the pain that accompanies it. I love blood in the same ways I love kink: it’s fucked up and delicious, it feels dangerous and intimate, and it’s so, so real and inescapable. It grounds me. Ironically, in spite of my caveman brain telling me that my own blood is a sign of danger, when done right, a bloody scene can help me to feel safe.

Smut Saturdays #16: Possession

Two trainers are placed on a rain-covered pavement, and appear to be empty, but the shadow that is cast by them appears to feature a whole human silhouette, standing in the trainers.

This piece of smut contains themes of possession and controlled by a supernatural entity. I know that can be a paranoia/psychosis trigger for some people, so I want to stress that this is purely fictional, but that you can definitely skip it if that’ll be hard for you to read.


Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


It slipped into me in the library.

Not some spooky library, nothing with books on the occult or anything thematically relevant. Just my university library, on the ground floor where the cafe is, whilst I was working on some coursework. I don’t know where It came from, but I felt a shift in my torso, and I heard Its voice:

“Jesus Christ, you live in this thing?”

At first I thought I had overheard a snippet of conversation, or maybe that I was hallucinating. (I sometimes do, after all, especially when I’ve had too much caffeine; I eyed the two empty Monster cans on the table with suspicion as It continued to talk.)

“Everything hurts! Like, everything! The hips, the knees, the knuckles, even one of your toes hurts!”

I was now leaning away from the possibility that it was a conversation on another table I was hearing. This left only the theory that I was hallucinating, so I ran through my mental checklist: I’d taken my anti-psychotics, I’d had a decent night’s sleep, I was only a little stressed and I hadn’t had any other sensory disturbances in the past few days.

Odd.

“You’re not hallucinating,” It insisted, Its voice as clear as if It were in the seat next to me. “I’m inside your body. I’m… I suppose you’d call me a demon. I’m a consciousness without a body, so I thought I’d try yours out. But I can’t believe how much your joints hurt! Are you seriously only 21?”

Cottoning on to the notion that this thing could hear my thoughts, I replied internally: Yep, I have a disorder. This is a pretty moderate pain day, too – it gets a lot worse. You might want to find another host.

Suffice to say, It did not do that.


It proved Its nature as a real thing, rather than a hallucination, as thoroughly as it could. It puppeteered my body, but I knew that could be a delusion. It had me stand in front of the mirror whilst It manifested as visibly as It could, a shimmering sort of stain in the air, but I knew that could be a hallucination too. That’s the problem with having occasional symptoms of psychosis: you can never really enjoy the truly weird things that life throws at you.

Still, It resided in my body for a few weeks, telling me in snippets about why It had wanted a physical form. It was, essentially, a manifestation of some kind of metaphysical force – chaos or something, as far as we could figure out. It didn’t really know, and I joked that I knew the feeling, being nonbinary and lacking the vocabulary for my experiences of gender. It responded, “I had noticed that. You have a lot of confusion in here.”

Since It shared my body, It also shared all my body’s sensations. I realised this when It said, firmly, mid-paragraph in the library, “We have to pee.”

It can wait, I thought, my fingers not faltering on the keyboard.

“It can, but it shouldn’t.” It froze my fingers, so they hovered, splayed, over the keys. “We’re going to the bathroom.”

I didn’t like the feeling of paralysis when It influenced my body’s movements, so I got to my feet of my own accord and, as petulantly as I could manage, made my way to the bathroom.


“We could get you out of me,” I suggested (out loud, because I was alone in my flat, and it made the conversation feel a little more real.) “Find you a new host whose body doesn’t suck, or else figure out somewhere to put you where you don’t have to possess people at all.”

“I don’t want that,” came Its deep, stubborn voice. “This body is fine.”

“You could do better than fine.” I tried to shut my thoughts up before It heard them: that I actually didn’t mind Its presence in me that much, that Its constant nagging to give in to every impulse I had was kind of funny and sometimes useful, that it was nice to only be alone when It rested. “You could possess some leader of something and actually cause chaos, rather than compelling me to rearrange those mugs with letters on them in Tesco’s to spell swearwords.”

It replied, “You wouldn’t like that. You’d feel guilty if anybody came to harm because I was breakdancing in Theresa May’s body.” What a fantastic mental image. “Besides, I don’t want to get out of you.”

“Why not?”

It made a sort of non-committal grumbling sound. “Not important.” I could sense that It wanted to change the subject, but I was intrigued now. “Morgan, shush. You should do some knitting.”

“I want to know why you don’t want to leave my body! It hurts all the time, you can’t override my dyspraxia and you have to sit through Linguistics lectures with me. What are you gaining here?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

I rolled my eyes at It. “You’ve been with me in the bathroom, while I’ve made the most dumb-ass Google searches and during one of my snotty, hysterical meltdowns. If I have to be embarrassed, so do you.”

It was thinking. “I don’t want to say it.”

I thought back to the only time It had locked me out of my body completely – during the aforementioned meltdown, when It realised that the only thing that could help was my meds, and It couldn’t convince me to take them. I had suddenly lost consciousness, falling into a black and marshmallowy abyss until It had pushed a sedative down my throat, at which point It gently brought me back and told me what It had done. (I probably should have been annoyed at It, but I was impressed, both by Its initiative and Its ability to lock me out.)

“You could shut me out of the body and write it down.”


When I came to, there was a note in my own handwriting on a page of my journal, which lay in front of me on my duvet.

Morgan,

This is hard for me to admit, but I’ve grown fond of you. Exceptionally fond. It’s lonely, being disembodied, and living alongside you is a blessing. I love hearing your thoughts, feeling all that empathy and compassion, being part of your life. It’s worth every moment of joint pain and every time you walk into the bed frame. And I like the feeling that I’m helping you by getting your meds into you, walking you to the bathroom, insisting that we eat. If I were to leave, I’d miss you terribly. And that wouldn’t be very chaotic of me. It would just be sad.

Oh.

I read it in silence, knowing that It could feel what I felt and hear what I thought.

What kind of fondness are we – I began, but It interrupted.

“When you’re asleep, sometimes I take over the body just to enjoy it. I like looking at it. I think it’s the kind of fondness you think it is.”

Okay, so the demon that lives inside my body now fancies me. That’s neat.

It responded, even though the thought wasn’t directed at It. “Yes, I fancy you, okay? Can we move on now?”

But It also heard my next thought, which was, Hey, I’d fuck a demon. Not sure how, but I would.

“I could…” Oh, now It was really embarrassed – I could feel it. “I could fuck you from in here. In your body. I could like, control your hands and stuff.”

I struggle with fucking myself. It knew this, of course, and had previously sympathised with me about it. The idea of allowing It to take the wheel, attuned to all my preferences and desires but separate enough from me to negate the feeling of weirdness I have whilst wanking was unbearably tempting. And, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a chaos demon whose whole raison d’être was encouraging people to succumb to base impulses to fuck them silly?

It was listening to my internal debate, and chimed in, “Plus, this could be a good exercise in overcoming that fear of yours. Like therapy.”

“Oh, yeah, we have to fuck for therapeutic reasons,” I responded, rolling my eyes at It.

It pulled me gently further upright, so I wasn’t slouching, and cast my eyes around the room. “You’ve got that mirror on the wardrobe,” It observed. “We could do it in front of there.”


I assembled a small nest of blankets, cushions and sex toys on the hard flooring in front of my wardrobe, anticipation building in my torso and in my cunt. I could feel Its nervous excitement too, although It kept pretty quiet as I dug the lube out of my bedside drawer and placed it alongside the two dildos I’d picked out, accompanied as always by my trusty Doxy wand. I had lost sight of quite how odd the whole procedure was, distracted by the unending feedback loop of Its desire and my own. Every time I noticed how excited It was, I felt a little more wanted, and a little more turned on, and every time It noticed my body getting more aroused, It flashed hot with want, stirring inside me.

I was barely even self-conscious as I stripped, clumsily but with haste, in front of the mirror. I was ready to sit down and get to work when It growled, “Wait.”

It wasn’t just a request – it came out like a command. I froze in place, naked and wide-eyed, as It took control of my left hand. Slowly, as though It wanted to give me a chance to take control back if I wanted to, It slid my left hand up my side, soliciting goosebumps, and then held my left boob gently, weighing it in my hand.

“So fucking soft…” It murmured to me, Its control creeping into my right hand as well.

I watched, transfixed, as It trailed my own fingernails along my abdomen, just shy of my mons pubis. It would know just as well as I did how wet I was getting, but It wasn’t half as shy as me. I could only stare, and let my cunt do its near-involuntary, desperate clenching, as It took Its sweet time caressing my sides, my tits and my stomach. In spite of the heat in my room making nudity a welcome change, I was all goosebumps, complemented by two erect nipples – nipples It was carefully avoiding, obviously teasing me for as long as It could.

“I know how badly you want it,” It said. “I can feel that ache in your cunt and the wetness between your thighs. I can feel your heartbeat changing. I can hear your innermost thoughts, and I know how badly you want me to play with you.”

I nodded (pointlessly – of course It knew), but I couldn’t resist a spot of cheek. “I can feel how badly you want it, too.”

It actually growled through my vocal chords, rather than inside my mind. “You have no idea how badly I want this,” It told me, Its voice back inside me again. “God, the amount of restraint it’s taken me not to just -”

But It stopped short, because it heard me thinking, Oh, so you can do restraint. Have I taught you that?

That’s the problem with being possessed by a very attentive demon – you can’t even be a sarcastic little prick in your own head.

I could feel It feeling around in my head, trying to get a read on something, and then, before I knew it, my own fingernails were being dragged across the skin just under my tits, hard enough to leave four long, parallel welts in the flesh.

Ah, of course – It was trying to determine whether I’d be okay with It using my hands to punish me for my cheek. And It knew I would be.

It also knew that this sudden burst of pain had made my clit tingle, and that if It wasn’t in charge of my hands, I’d probably already be starting to masturbate. But, since It was, I could only stand there, struggling not to pout, as It continued stroking up and down my stomach with my own fingertips.

I realised, with all the hazy slowness of someone who is about to slip into subspace, that I had full control of my legs. Maybe if I sat in my little blanket nest and spread my legs in front of the mirror, It wouldn’t be able to resist…

I landed heavily and awkwardly on my arse, knees akimbo, and directed my eyes towards my exposed cunt. A fine layer of fuzz was visible on my labia majora, but like a lot of people, my inner labia exceeded those, sticking out cheekily like a tongue in a bratty selfie. You could tell (or at least, I could) just by looking that I was aroused – everything was pinkened and puffy, and if you strained, you could probably see my clit poking out of its hood, hardened and eager to be touched.

“I know what you’re doing,” It told me firmly, but It still slid my hands further down my abdomen, closer to my mons pubis and my desperately wet cunt. “I’m in charge here.”

Oh. That particular facet of the situation hadn’t fully sunken in – that It was capable of manipulating any part of my body, and that I had no way of making It leave. That I was trapped, in my body, just watching it be touched.

“I meant that in a sexy way,” It added hastily upon sensing my thoughts. “Like that I’ll be the boss here. But I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t one hundred percent want, you know.” Oh, I wanted to trust It, but… “Besides, you’re much better company when you’re enjoying yourself, so I’d never do anything you disliked – it wouldn’t be half as fun.”

Ugh. It knew Its way around my brain too well. I couldn’t relax into this scene for my own sake, but of course I could relax for It.

So I did. I leaned back against my stack of cushions to give It a better view of my cunt in the mirror and watched my own left hand as it picked up a vibrator. Instinct tilted my pelvis upwards a little, giving It fuller access to my clit. My own thumb turned the vibe to its lowest setting, but I wasn’t going to get off that easily – It dragged the vibe across the fold between my thigh and my stomach, and then around every inch of my vulva other than my clit, with such deliberate slowness that I whined out loud at It: “Please just fuck me!”

It laughed at my desperation and let the very tip of the vibe skim over the very tip of my clit, not even lingering there before progressing to another thigh-fold. I made a far less coherent whining sound than my previous one had been, and my hips twitched without my say-so (a motion which would have betrayed me and my horniness if my current partner weren’t literally already inside my body and brain).

I could feel It running out of patience at a rate similar to my own, inching towards a loss of control that I had no objections to. I just didn’t expect It to suddenly, ferociously, press the vibe directly to my clit, using my own thumb to turn it up, up, up…

It only took about fifteen seconds after reaching the vibrator’s most powerful setting for my toes to curl and the burn of orgasm to spread through my cunt and thighs. It spurred me on with every filthy thing It knew I liked to hear: “Oh, that’s right, fucking come for me, you’re such an easy little bitch, come, I want you to come, I’ve wanted to watch you come since the moment I saw you…”

I wailed, It gently pulling my eyes open, as I came hard in front of the mirror, watching my own cunt spasm and twitch in time with the waves of pleasure. It all but purred with satisfaction.

“Oh, you’ve gone and fucking done it now,” It said, as I lay back in my nest and gazed at the ceiling. “Now I know how fucking delicious it feels to make you come, and how good you look, we’re going to do everything.”

My mind jumped from the largest dildo I owned to my array of butt plugs and all the things It could use to cause me pain. The shiver those thoughts sent through me re-hardened my softening nipples, which I noticed mostly because It picked my hands up – gently, allowing me joint control – and started to pinch at them.

“Yes,” It said, pulling so hard on the left one that I whimpered, “everything.”

Why Bottoms Should Make Notes At Kink Workshops

Stock photo of a blank, lined, spiral-bound notebook, open and with a fancy pen sitting on top of it

I want to present to you my case for bottoms who attend kink and BDSM workshops making notes on the material they learn. I notice a lot of tops with notebooks and pens, but markedly fewer bottoms with the same, and I think those bottoms might be losing out a little as a result.

But before I delve any deeper, a small disclaimer: I go to a lot of rope workshops. And very little else. So this piece will be from a rope bottoming perspective, using rope bottoming examples, but it should still be relevant for spanking workshops, protocol workshops, humiliation workshops, and any other workshop you can conceive of where bottoms might be there, absorbing information and/or being practised upon by their toppy friends and/or partners.


I’ve written plenty about how actually being tied up feels for me, and why I like it, but I think there’s a particular art to attending workshops and classes in a bottoming capacity. I’ll likely never use the information provided at these classes for topping (since I’m dyspraxic as hell and sub-leaning besides), but I like to be more than a willing body for a top to practice on when I’m in any kind of workshop setting.

So I make notes.

They’re not notes that a top could use (at least, not on their own), because they don’t feature any technical details, diagrams or instructions. Instead, I make notes on the things I’ll find useful later, for one or more of the following reasons:

  1. When I’m in subspace, I’m not likely to retain information unless I write it down;
  2. When I’m overwhelmed by being in a noisy room full of people, I’m not likely to retain information unless I write it down;
  3. The physical act of writing keeps my autistic gremlin hands busy in a way that doesn’t look too rude (unlike, say, playing Animal Crossing on my phone), so my autistic gremlin brain can focus on what the workshop leader(s) is/are saying;
  4. They’re both informative and fun to look back over days or weeks after a class or a workshop.

“But Morgan,” you may be asking, “what do you make notes on, if not technical details and instructions?”

I’m glad you asked, dearest hypothetical reader.

I primarily make notes based on gut feeling – things that make my ears perk up, if you will. I start each workshop’s notes with the title of the class, the date on which it takes place and the scene name(s) of the workshop leader(s), and then I outline what we’re actually doing, like so:

Example Workshop – 12.05.19 – Led by Example McExampleface and E. G. Forinstance

Objective(s): full side suspension; gunslinger hip harness; eat as many aftercare snacks as humanly possible

After that, I might make notes on specific ties, both naming and describing them so that I don’t have to Google fancy shibari terminology every time I revisit my notes.

Tie: Tengu (the raptor hands one that makes my boobs look excellent)

The most useful notes I make, though, are usually based upon things said by the demo bottom (who often also doubles as a workshop leader). Demo bottoms provide invaluable tips on which things are the hardest to endure and how you might go about doing so, and they’re not usually tips that tops will take note of. Demo bottoms remind you to stretch and wiggle, encourage you to be a princess if something hurts in the wrong way, and give you straight answers about how uncomfortable or painful something might be. They make the world go ’round.

TIP: keep an eye out for circulation loss/nerve impingement in the hands for this one

Another key thing I include in my workshop notes is something a top simply cannot do on a bottom’s behalf – my initial reactions to all the activities we try. This is especially important for me as I have a hypermobility condition which requires me to be careful with the positions I put myself in (or allow others to put me in), and keeping track of which positions seem to aggravate which joints is key. For instance, if I’m having a Bad Knees Day™, I can use my notes as a tool in considering whether a futomomo is a good idea.

“Morgan, don’t you just remember when things hurt you?” you might be wondering.

No, dearest reader, I do not. If I remembered every position, activity or weather change that ever made my joints hurt, I would have no room left in my brain to remember anything else. I’m always in a little bit of pain, and often in a lot – so I often block it out, and I almost always forget about it afterwards.

Thoughts: that was hot as fuck, very much enjoyed the feeling of being compact & smol. Elbow joints ache, about 4/10 pain, but worth it (and could be fixed w/ ibuprofen and care)

Naturally, bottoms who might be inspired to take notes in workshops as a result of this blog post can deviate from the formula I’ve presented here. If you think you’d benefit more from making notes on the mechanics of something, drawing little diagrams of human anatomy or anything else, you do you. I’m just here to sell notebooks remind bottoms that they’re active participants in kink, and that their insight and learning is as valuable as that of their toppier counterparts.