His phone vibrated on the desk beside his laptop and he touched the screen to open her text. She often messaged him in the afternoons, leaving his mornings to him to be productive without her distracting words and images.  Those snippets of her fed the hunger in him, both a blessing and a curse, as they both worked from home. The message was just an image: a pristine white counter with a single bottle of red nail varnish. His heart raced. She must have known what this picture would do to him, and if so, her hunch was correct.He chewed at his lip and zoomed in on the deep, glossy crimson of the small bottle, the perfect red: dark and deep but pure and sanguine, not too purple or too orange, a rich, erotic colour that stirred him as he imagined it on her finger tips.

A second message came through, another photograph, this time of one of her slender, pale hands soaking in a dish, the gloved hands of an esthetician could be seen in the background. 

He swallowed hard, she was at the nail salon, he hadn’t heard her leave.

He felt a twinge of envy that she was being pampered by strangers. She often allowed him to paint her nails and worship her beautiful hands, every detail and comfort considered as she languished, queen-like in the bath or on the velvet chaise lounge in their bedroom. He closed his eyes and imagined her hand in his, the smell of the nail varnish, the meticulous strokes of the tiny brush, the focus on her beauty and the powerful aesthetic of the long, sharp, oxblood ovals of her fingernails.  He could feel the memory of his knees on the cool tile floor or the lush pile of the bedroom rug, at her feet, diligently painting her to perfection.

He felt his cock surge in his pants as a third image filled the screen of his phone. He absentmindedly began to rub at the bulge, his breath quickening. It was a close up of the lethal tips of her nails, filed to dagger points, shining and lustrous, in a flawless cherry coating. His hand moved from his lap and slid up to unbutton his shirt. He winced as his hand brushed his chest, and he looked down at the tender red scratches that marked him from clavicle to navel. His torso was a tortured map of passionate gouges and territorial markings. He blushed as he remembered the previous day at the gym, showering off as the heat of the water inflamed the the love-stripes, a passerby in the locker room raising an eyebrow and commenting, “Oooooh, someone’s kitty has claws!” He had smirked; if they only knew.

She was no kitty, she was a tigress.

He stroked the scratches, paying particular attention to one that bisected his nipple, the stinging pain and pleasure as he touched it was enough to evoke the memories of her, topless, in nothing but fine, sheer black stockings, the lacy tops of which he had fingered on her thighs as she had looked down on him, her hands caressing his chest and stomach. Undulating slowly over him, pressing into his weeping cock but only enough to make him desperate, she had purred and whispered unspeakably dark and beautiful things to him as her caresses became more intense, as her fingertips gave way to her fingernails, as the red tracks rose up with every scratch and laceration. He had arched beneath her, begging, filled with desire. How many times had he endured this ritual?

His head swam at the thought of her freshly manicured hands shredding his chest and back, wearing her welts proudly, the cartography of her love carved into his flesh. He touched himself greedily, his memory and imagination blurring, lost in fantasy and the fetish of her nails and what they did to him. He pumped his cock and thought of her scratching gently down his shaft, catching his balls tightly in the cage of her fingers, nails digging in until he begged her to stop, instantly regretting it when the pain and tension disappeared. He stroked and worked his cock, head back, eyes closed, mouth agape, only periodically looking at the images of her hands. When he closed his eyes again, all he could see was the slick red surface of her nails and the white hot pain they gave him. The pleasure was overwhelming and it built within him quickly. He managed the edge of his orgasm over and over, cooling down and ramping up again, all the while imagining her destroying him with her hands.

He was hunched and gasping, about to finally come all over the tender marks on his chest and stomach when his trance was broken by the sensation of her fingers in his hair as she stood behind him, her nails slowly raking over his scalp. He shuddered and tilted his head back to look up at her, his oozing cock throbbing in his hand, his thumb slicked with anticipation. She leaned over his shoulder and dragged her fresh, red nails up his thighs and past his cock, digging harder as they clawed his stomach and lit up his chest. He whimpered and leaned back into his chair, the smell of her and the sight of her scarlet fingertips took him back to the precipice of orgasm almost instantly.

He watched the pink welts rise as she scratched him,  over and over, holding his breath until she whispered permission and he finally released for her, his thrill and devotion pouring out over her hands, his orgasm painting her ruby nails with a sticky strings of pearls.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.