"Reluctance (story) guro"
By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu)

URL: https://pastebin.com/4KtVGbuS
Created on: Monday 8th of February 2016 08:50:06 PM CDT
Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:41:01 AM UTC


Reluctance

When my doorbell rings in the middle of the night these days, I’m no longer so slow to get up. Nadi’s been doing it for a couple of months now, and a couple of times it’s been crucial to get the door opened in a hurry. I throw my covers aside and start moving for the door, still nowhere near completely awake. On the way there I grab my robe, as my feet search in vain for places to tread that aren’t as cold as the floor. “Why are blankets such a pain to clean” I find my sleep-ridden brain asking the world.
Still stumbling towards the door, I look out the window. Nadi’s front door is wide open, and she hasn’t turned off the light. “Maybe she was in a hurry” I fear, while my thoughts tell me she was just not paying attention. I partly expect to see a blood trail from her door towards mine, but of course there isn’t any. It’s pretty dark out, though. It might just not be visible.
I reach the door and throw it open. Nadi can’t see my face, or if she can, she’s too out of it to read anything into it. Because the first thing she does is hold up a small piece of bloody tissue in her hand and smile proudly at me.
“See, Sara? I just cut it off now!” she says triumphantly. Waves of contradictory emotion wash through me: Pity, disgust, arousal and shame, shame that this girl is turning me on so much by doing something so vile. As I reach out to pull Nadi into my home, I scan her body for the telltale bloodstains. It seems she just pulled on her sparse white panties for modesty as she crossed the two small gardens and the path between them. Her breasts show no new signs of mutilation, neither does her face. As I pull her in, I notice she’s pushing her thighs together over the hand cupping her mound; she looks even more little-girly like this, like she’s trying not to pee. I pull her hand away, and should gasp. But I knew it already. She looks like she’s peed her panties with blood, and a small trickle is running down her inner thigh.
In her current state of pain, light-headedness and post-orgasmic bliss she is even easier to handle than most times. She follows my lead like a compliant druggie, as I use my cursed experience to get her in and close the door behind her. To keep her treasure safe, she closes her hand around the labium majoris she’s cut off, and she stumbles into my bathroom like so many times before. She plumps down on the seat, and playfully and drunkenly tries to help me get her panties down so I can survey the damage. She giggles in stupid happiness as she spreads her thighs for me, and she puts a bloody hand on my head, guiding my face to her vagina in a far too sexual manner. She has little strength, though, and she can’t keep me from arriving at the conclusion that she needs stitches a lot more than oral attention.
I weigh my much too long list of priorities again. Her door is open. She’s bleeding. Her labium is in her hand. My nipples are hard. I can barely think. I’m cold. She’s even colder.
I reach for my first-aid kit under the sink and deal with her damaged sex first. I’ve done things like this too often now. It’s her right side that’s been subjected to her sexual violence. I notice the familiar sight of a certain piece of string escaping from her rectum, and I know what’s attached to it. I shudder a little and focus on the task at hand. Now’s certainly not the time. I stitch her up quickly, but neatly, and my hands barely tremble at all this time. She responds to the pangs of renewed pain by cooing and lightly running her cold fingers over my hands. As soon as I’m done, I throw a towel around her shoulders and another across her lap.
“Don’t move.” My first words since I woke, and she smiles at me. She smiles with complete and unrestrained love for me, letting me know through her sick and twisted haze of sex and self-mutilation that she will do anything I ask of her. I force that thought out of my mind, and I move to leave the bath room.
“Thank you,” she mouths. I can’t help smiling just a little at her then.
I quickly go to her place and shut the door, my bare feet appalled at cold and wet, grass and stone, dirt and pain, as I skip across the open. I quickly close her door and start back.
Relieved I dry my feet some on the welcome mat. I get in and lock the door behind me.
With quick glances out the windows, half expecting to see some pervert trying to catch a glimpse of this weird scene, I pull the curtains and get a plate from the cupboard.
Once I’m back in her wounded, happy, delirious presence I hold the plate out to her, and she places her latest prize on the clean, shiny surface. She lets a little giggle slip again, and the look of hunger on her face chills my spine and heats my pussy. I will myself not to get emotional now. I put the plate aside and start cleaning us both up.
The blood loss is not dangerous, unless she’s bled herself recently. Once she’s fairly clean, I lead her to my bed. It’s still warm from my body, and I wish I could just slip in there with her and go to sleep. But I can’t yet. I help her get comfortable and pull the clean, white covers over her.
Just as I’m about to stand up, she grabs my hair and pulls my face towards hers. The grip is not at all that of the weak and willing orgasm-drunk slut I’ve been helping, and I indulge her. Not that I don’t want to, but I rationalize this from her obvious determination.
Our lips meet, and her tongue searches mine out. I know what she wants, and I want to give it to her. But I can’t, especially not now. I just play the game for a short while, and then I suddenly bite her tongue hard enough for it to hurt, and to keep it trapped. I don’t think I drew any blood this time. She wiggles her caught tongue and purrs at the pain and the loss of control. I let go, and she slowly pulls her tongue back. I bite her lower lip once before I pull back from her. 
I go to the kitchen and put a saucepan on. I add milk and start warming it. One hand free, I begin getting the pan out, the big veggie knife…
Once her milk is warm and in her cup, I go back with it and help her sit up in the bed. She loves this bit, I know. She snuggles close to me and mewls softly. Her arms are around me, and I pour the milk for her. Every now and again she moves or wiggles a little to get the pain in her crotch up again. She doesn’t move it to the point of opening the wound up again, not after our serious talk about ruining my mattress. We kiss a little in between her drinking, nothing deep or violent, just soft and slow. I make sure she drinks it all up before I go back to the kitchen. I guess she’s playing gently with her anal beads now that her pussy is pretty much off limits. With that image in mind I start preparing our night snack.
Onion. Bits of carrot. Pasta al dente. A little golden oil to keep it all from burning. Seasoning. And finally, of course, her meat. I cook it slowly and with great care. It’s a rare treat to have such an intimate meal with a friend, and I must do my very best. All the feelings of guilt and fear thin into nothing as I prepare the little meal for the two of us.
As we eat and whisper together, sitting in my bed, we agree that this can’t go on. She’s sorry to bother me like this, but this is the only way she can get me to share her meat. She’s tried to have me there when she removes the bit, but I can’t get myself to accept it. I’ve stopped her every time.
We have to end this. And by ending this, we will have to end her. Somehow I’m not repulsed by that thought. I love her as much as I’ve ever loved another woman, and I really want to see her die in agony, to be used for meat.
When we’re done eating, she insinuates a hand into my robe, and while talking and stimulating me, she makes me swear. We have to find someone to help us. We have to go all the way the next time. We have to kill her soon.