I close my eyes and think of scratching. I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.
I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.
I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail. We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.
I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard. Make it hurt good.
I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them. I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips. I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder. I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home. Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.
I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas. Paint me red.”