Like all fetishes and sexual interests, there has to be some sort of connection, some defining event between the fantasy and the fantasizer. Mine was the sexual formative years of sixteen or so, usually involving a boyfriend two years older than I was, with the same morbid predilections for biting and blood and animalistic fucking. We knew each other for a year or more before dating, as I was involved with his best friend and he respectfully waited until that was dead and buried before pursuing me in a gently endearing fashion that belied his deviate sexual nature, which I'd like to think I helped to cultivate. We dated for several weeks, maybe even months, before consummating in an upstairs bedroom while my best friend sat, bored and jealous downstairs, endlessly looping the Cult's "Wildflower" 45 single loudly enough to cover the bouncing bed noises above.
We were endlessly fucking in that delicous teen frenzied style and his parents were terribly indulgent by letting us spend hours unsupervised in his room. His lips were soft and his kisses firm, biting my tongue tip until the wet penny taste of my blood would fill my mouth, then I would reciprocate the biting and sucking and swallowing until our tongues were too sore to continue and it would dissolve into fully nude sweaty body worship and wall scraping pounding in that white, brightly lit small room.
He gave me the most delightful love bites, scarlet and purple bloody patches extending fully around my pale neck like a violent collar, a symbol of my submission to his possession and a means of my mother despising him and my badge of obvious eccentric sexuality for all my peers to see. Occasionally he'd suck and bite so hard on my neck and shoulders that the skin would break and the blood would trickle down, often mixing with his sweat as his cock pumped into me, the audible wet peeling of our supple youthful bodies pulling away momentarily in the thrusting. Bruises like winged tattoos covered my nape and upper back after fierce sessions of doggiestyle fucking, usually the most fulfilling when I'd feign unwillingness and fall off the bed naked and crawl across the floor with him in pursuit. he'd grab me by the legs and pull me back into the room, carpet abrasions on my belly and chest as I wriggled and screamed before either escaping again or being roughly penetrated after being dragged back to the bed. My skin would be pink and raw and burning and his tongue would lick away the fire and blood and all would be right again. He was the only guy I dated who enjoyed eating me during my period, lapping up all my pussy fluids and kissing me full on the lips, the copper taste and smell lingering, the bloodstains on the white sheets let as an afterglow memoir and a bane for his mother to wash.
One day he cooked me lunch, as he was fond of doing, and he slit his finger into the rice, dripping his blood in precious droplets and pretending it was an accident while I smirked knowingly that it was some sort of voodou, surely, as he milked the liquid into a scarlet splattered side dish which I quickly consumed before retiring upstairs with his slit finger in my mouth and his swollen cock pressing into my cunt... absolute ecstasy. At some point in our years together, he had a car accident injury on his finger, which was stitched and covered in a cast and our constant rough fucking kept busting the stitches, leaving a red bloody stain leaking through the plaster needing a restitching immediately. He slit his wrists and made a melancholic mess one night, taking him not to the ER but up my skirt. We later began draining willing persons of their blood, but that's a story for another time.