Pink Bliss” is not a typical short erotic story. It is a lot more depressing than a turn-on, but it was something I felt I needed to try a couple of years ago. The idea behind this fictional story is to take something horrible and make it sexy. It’s also an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bit inspired by the book “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde. In the end, writing this admittedly weird text was not only an experiment, I also got some personal issues out of the way.
So, you’ve been warned. Proceed with caution. This one is not for the faint-hearted. 

At this very moment there is nothing I want more than to cut the flesh. The knife burns in my hand like iron heated in a blacksmith’s forge. My grip tightens. Soon I will do that for which you have been made, but first I have to use the anaesthetic cream. No injection, no complete numbness. There has to be some sensation, some tickling sense of life struggling unwillingly to let go. I drop the knife in the sink in front of me, put on one of those white examination gloves, open the tube and start rubbing. Once I have finished I throw the glove in the corner of the bathroom. Now wait.

I stare in the mirror. The woman I see is not the one you know and love. She is not the one you’ve said yes to so many years ago. She is something different all together. The mask of the perfect wife, the mother of your children, your cook and cleaning lady, your best friend has fallen off. No more Mrs Nice, Mrs Wonderful, Mrs Make Your Dreams Come True. No. Just me. Here’s a woman who has lived in the shadows. A woman who has done things you will never know of. A beast uncaged, but still kind enough not to hurt you with this deceitful knowledge.

As I let the memories of my parallel encounters come alive in my mind, a grin appears opposite of me. How I have found the true me, if only for a few never ending moments. How I have taken risks, just for the sheer pleasure of complete oblivion. How I have sinned, so lusciously, and then returned to reality again… and again… and again, to wear my mask and hide my darkest transgressions in plain daylight.

The lidocaine cream starts to work. I take the knife again, turn the left arm with the inside up and start in the middle of the palm of the hand. I cut all the way up, slowly and precisely. Not too deep, just deep enough for the blood to drip.

Once I have almost reached the shoulder I take a turn to the chest. Right above the breast I continue. I image the cancer taking a deep breath of relief, finally being set free after years of the unsuccessful treatments. It’s not nice being trapped. It makes me happy that it can all come out now and flee. I stop when I reach the common carotid artery near the throat. I am not in a hurry. 

I look at the result. No blood splattering, which is good. I want it to take its time and so it does. The blood flows slowly down my naked body. My breasts are red, my nipples hard. Little red drops slide further down my belly and lubricate my vulva. Lust burns up inside me. I touch my breasts with both hands, spreading my blood, feeling my nipples stiffen even more. My clitoris starts to beat with a familiar demanding desire. My good hand slips down and caresses her gently. A sigh escapes. One last time. With my sliced up hand I continue fondling my breasts. The other hand spreads the red fluid all over my vulva, rubs my clit faster and faster. I enjoy my reflection, the horrible beauty of my very last image in this life, and breathe harder. My orgasm comes quickly, shoots through my spine and makes my brain explode.

I tremble. Pleasure and coldness mix inside me. The floor is slippery with my blood. Time to carefully step into the bathtub. Completely satisfied I let my body slide into the warm, peaceful water. It turns pink like the Pink Bliss in the glass waiting for me on the edge of the tub. I take a sip, taste the sweet, fruity cherries and berries and imagine how they must have flourished underneath a setting sun. A moment I enjoy to the fullest. Pink Bliss… a fitting name for my last scandalous escapade.