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Thread: First Time TW
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02-03-2012 #1
First Time TW
Helen flipped the razor between her fingers, letting the edges graze her skin. Slow, she played it against her upper thigh, light, barely kissing her skin. Helen watched the tiny rolls of white curl under the silver. She picked at the first layer. The skin was virgin white, uncut, untouched. Her mouth twitched, it was pure, and fertile. The edge or the razor caught. It flowed over her like water, flooding up through her. She let her head hang back, mouth open. It was so little pressure, but more than enough. Her finger tips sought her leg.
Helen sucked hard through her nose as her fingers played at the open skin. Silence….
Again.
Her mouth stretched open and she felt her pulse run up into her neck. She pulled the razor hard and fast. Her legs quivered under her and again, she gasped. She hummed with it, her body moving everywhere, feeling everywhere. She panted, her lungs so heavy inside her chest. Then, along her legs, she felt a slow cold bead. For the first time she looked.
Her virgin skin was fresh plowed with red rutted trenches. It was beautiful. Helen felt her face stretch wide, she was behind herself, watching. The thin blade dug again, and the skin inside flashed damask white before cumming blood from its lips. The small round head crawled along her skin, pissing a trail of red in its wake. Helen grinned down at it as it slugged toward her knees. Quickly, she dug in quick succession, filling the white plain with tens of red slugs all slipping down into her legs, to her knees, over the side onto her blue carpet. It was beautiful.
The water bubbled up inside of Helen, a little brook creeping up her stomach, stretching and tickling until it emerged as a little bubbling laugh. Helen chuckled, she laughed, her face split in two and broke with the force of that tiny babbling laugh. She bled, and she laughed. The metal wormed through her skin again and Helen snickered at the funny mouth that grinned back up at her.
She raped her leg with the razor until the brook inside of her dried up and took the rest of the numbness with it.
Wretch, wretch, wretch! Such soft sacred heart wells should not be doled
Out to machines who cannot take draught.
Where you as wise as you are need-filled, you should see that you ought
Damn these places and serve no water from your soul.
Lest with rust and groaning whines
The machine plucks out the roots of love with which you were entwined.



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