Russia picked up the pristine, shear blade beside his bed. He kissed the dull side and then gently sliced his upper lip, letting the iron drip down into his mouth. No one else's blood ever tastes better than his own people's.
With the blade already red on the edge, he pressed the sharp, triangle-shaped edge into his left hand's finger. He pierced his fingertips, just so each formed a small drop of blood that would occasionally tumble down his palm, or fall onto the bed sheets. He licked his fingers avidly, sucking on each tip to get the most blood out of each hole. His stomach clenched from the sickeningly sweet flavor.
But that was enough foreplay.
Finally he lifted up his shirt and sliced a clean line just under his stomach. It was only faint, but a thin line of blood popped up, sending chills down his spine. He was excited now, so excited!, and he dug the blade into the line's most left part and dragged it all the way to the end. The sudden sharp pain of having his insides scrapped scared him. No... it was exhilarating, and freeing. He gasped loudly and felt his back arch towards the blade, wanting, needing more of it. He shudder hard, afraid of his own crazed temptations. After all, the only thing that scared Russia was himself.
Now the blood dripped from both sides of the cut across his stomach. Russia couldn't help but smile once he began to move the blood around, smearing it all over his hands and stomach. He picked up the blade again and cut into himself, except this time, he held the blade at an angle. He angled the blade downward, so a nice fold of skin was created by the time he had traced the line yet again. Eager and cheerful, he dug his fingers under the fold. By now his cock was fully hard and dripping with precum, so he realized he didn't have that much longer to do this.
He stuffed the other hand into his fold and, after sorting through everything else inside, finally found his intestines. He stroked them horizontally, and giggled when he stroked them vertically, because it reminded him of a xylophone. Kneeding his insides, he panted loudly, and twisted his neck so he faced the wall. It was so nice to feel something other than the dull, dreary cold of Moscow.
He squeezed his insides with one of his hands, the other deciding to grab the blade. Now soaked in blood, he drew the blade near his throat and scraped it hard, right at the center. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't, and his hand kept squeezing his intestines, and at any moment he felt they might just pop and explode all over him, or spill out, ah, Ah- spill out onto him and make him gorgeous, a gorgeous red color, and it was just, ah, so good and, don't stop, no, don'tstop!-
His back arched dangerously high, practically feeling his intestines slip right out, and he came immedietly. His toes curled as he cried out his own name, almost tasting the blood in his hands and almost smelling his insides. He slipped his hand out of his body and lied there for about a minute, the blood pouring from his incision. The heat went away and soon he became very cold again. His face tightened with disdain and he starred at his white ceiling. It was cold.
Finally deciding to clean up, he headed to the bathroom to wash up. He made himself a nice bubble bath which quickly turned red once he stepped inside. The bubbles were soft and water was warm, which made Russia very happy. However, his favorite thing about the after-masturbation bath was not the feeling of the bubbles, but the taste of the hot soapy water mixed with his blood. He smiled wildly as he almost drowned himself in the bath just to taste it, to smell it, to be it. He lifted his head for air, and once leaning back, happily fell asleep in the bloody tub, still smiling. He loved his people more than he could imagine, and dreamt about eating each of them, one by one.