Torn nudity. Eroguro tales of the Macabre

Wish

"I've been so naive. How could she ever notice me? After all I have done to her, at this point, how could I make up for the pain I've caused?" With that thought in mind, she dodges the blade and makes her own sword kiss her opponent's body. Another cut, spilling more blood. "She's become careless." She slices her thigh, shoulder, back. The other woman complains with each wound. "Moans of pain or moans of pleasure, they're the same to me, if I close my eyes." She feels jealousy toward her own steel, which caresses her opponent's skin and draws those sighs. But at the same time, she has let her guard down, and her enemy's weapon tears her shirt and leaves a gash between her breasts. There is a burning flash where the steel marked her, and the warmth of the freed blood blankets her chest. "Like this, with my breasts exposed, bleeding, will she finally notice me?" She won't; her enemy remains focused on their lethal dance. So there is nothing left to do but spill more blood. Although raising her arm is becoming harder and harder. Until, in an attack from her opponent, she reacts one second too late, and a blow from the sword leaves her right arm hanging. The other wounds hurt, but nothing compared to what she feels now; the pain is so great she can't even feel it. Now she is the one who screams, though above the agony there is a desire tearing at her insides. Look at me. Her opponent, with a proud gesture of disdain, pierces her through and pins her against a tree.

Blood pours in spurts from the inflicted wounds. Yet, among the thorns of pain, she feels a hand gently hold her face and lift it. Their eyes meet. "You see me," she thinks with joy. Her opponent's eyes also whisper, I see you. She smiles with effort as life drains away from her. The wetness between her legs could be sexual arousal, or urine escaping in the throes of death. She is afraid to whisper words of love, not wanting to break the spell. She grabs the hand that delivered the fatal blow and holds it firmly against her chest, preventing it from releasing the soul that keeps her pinned and bound to her enemy. "Stay here, stay with me," she wants to say. She doesn't; she doesn't need to. In the end, her opponent remains by her side, and her eyes don't leave her own. Not even after her gaze lies fixed in the void.