“You’re not prepared for this, little mouse,” he says. “Yes, I am.” “No, you’re not.” He brings his wrist to his mouth and bites into his own flesh. Blood coats his lips and drips from the wound. I frown at him, unsure of what he means to do and then— He holds his bleeding wrist over his cock, coating it in wet crimson. Fisting himself, he strokes long, once, twice. He’s using blood like lube.
