Compulsion

The antiseptic wipe was cold in the oppressive heat of summer.
Slowly she dragged it along her skin,
pushing the fine hair on her arms.
Methodically, she cleaned the area in preparation of her ritual.
Once the arm was satisfactorily sterile
she turned her attention to the razor,
taking special care not to accidentally cut her fingers.
As soon as the cleaning was complete,
she pressed the sharp blade to her sterile arm,
etching the familiar pattern into the pliant flesh.
Blood flowed freely, yet she was careful
not to let any get on her pristine white shirt.
A sharp intake of breath accompanied
each slice of the blade.
There was no pain in her face,
just pure pleasure.
When the task was complete,
she gently cleaned both the wound and the instrument with rubbing alcohol
relishing the sting
as if it were her climax.