Bloody Finger Story Novels & Stories

Aeron groans a little from the pain, but that is all before he goes dark again. My finger flicks against the bullet and it does great damage to the tip. But I swallow the agony and keep on going, sinking my finger deeper until I feel the bullet pressing hard against my skin. I close my eyes and groan silently as I continue to push, letting it imbed its way into my fingers. When I'm sure it's in, I slowly and carefully pull my fingers out as blood spurted in all directions. But just as I pull the bullets it suddenly wiggles, its weight pulling it out of my finger, threatening to fall back into the hall.

Steam rose from the blood on the ice, then it froze solid, turning dark red. He finished Lu. Crooked, but legible. The second character was Na. By the fourth stroke, his finger wouldn't obey him anymore. Not from pain. His fingers had no feeling left. The muscles were cramping. The finger curled and wouldn't straighten. He used his left hand to grab his right hand and force the finger straight. The right hand was useless too, the knife still lodged in the shoulder. He grabbed his right thumb with his left hand and pressed it against the ice, stroke by stroke. The thumb had no nail, only thick calluses. It left no mark on the ice. He turned the thumb over and used the edge of the nail. The na

Whenever I touched him, I burned my hands, and my fingers were so cold that each of my touches hurt him. Blood kept oozing from his open lip. Thick, fresh blood: it looked dark. I still remember what it looked like when it changed its color on my shivering hands. It was no longer red at all. but nearly black, and could have been mistaken for ink as it ran over my fingers.

Celine said maliciously. I watched helplessly as she raised the hammer and brought it down on my little finger. "Ah!" I screamed as my finger bent at an unnatural angle with blood seeping from the wound. Before I could process the pain, she struck my other fingers. One by one, all five fingers on my left hand were broken and twisted. I didn't even dare to move. After much struggling, I clutched my injured hand with my other, sobbing uncontrollably as tears and snot smeared across my face.

“Rot. Look at your fingers.” “OH, GOD! KELLY!!!” I got shaken by Frix’s panicking voice and looked at the fingers of my injured arm. The tips of my fingers are already bluish-black and I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t move a muscle in my arm. “Should as well just cut it off before the poison circulates inside your body,” the stranger said with an uncaring look and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit it. The smell made me grimace.

Starting from his right middle finger, pointy finger, then at the back of his hand before moving to his left hand. Roland screamed in pain and agony as he watched and felt his fingers cut off and fall from his hand! He endured it as he tried to protect his little buddy from getting sliced! However, even with tears making his sight blurry, he was stunned when the needle got long after one turn! He didn’t have enough fingers anymore to protect his d*ck! As his legs and ass bathed in his finger’s blood, Roland screamed when the needle hit the outer skin layer of his d*ck! He felt it! Slicing it slowly with extreme pain! "Arghh!"

That was odd for him to feel that kind of emotion towards someone who is way younger and barely has any experience in business just like him. “Does it hurt? Oh, it’s bleeding.” She’s holding her wounded finger with both of her hands. There’s indeed blood oozing out of her finger but it wasn’t much. Silvia just overrated her injury. “It’s nothing. Really.” She tried to pull her finger out of her grasp but she’s persistent to hold it for herself. “OH MY GOD! You’re bleeding so much.” Both of her mouth and eyes were wide open. Even taking steps back. As if she saw a ghost.

I sigh and pick up the large hunting knife. "How much do you like your fingers?" I ask him. His hands are retrained to the arms of the wooden chair so I could easily take a finger off. He doesn't answer so I grab his hand a force his little finger out, pressing the sharp edge against the skin until a drop of blood forms. I can see him trembling but he doesn't speak, so I push the knife down quickly and slice clean through his finger. He screams again and there is more blood but he still won't talk. "This is just the beginning unless you talk to me."

There’s nothing worse than exhaustion from too much exposure to the cold. This coming from someone who used to think that the torture methods used in Dad’s–and every other organized crime group–was bad. For instance, having your finger chopped off in order to get information out of you, sucked. I was ten years old when I walked in on Dad and his men sitting in the kitchen, not thinking much of it. Until I noticed a man sitting amongst them, crying, and clutching a bloody hand to his chest. It took a few seconds for me to comprehend why a massive, grown-ass man would be sobbing like that. Then I spotted the severed finger on the kitchen table.

The dripping of blood down his finger seemed to form a rhythm as the peeled skin and mutilated flesh hung low over the pincers. It was almost difficult to pick up but I could hear him begging under his breath now. Pleading won't help, I only want the name of the person who hired him. I wanted to make this last as long as possible but I am also getting bored so I got straight to business and broke the bone, cutting off the finger completely. Blood continued to pour out of the hole in his hand. His scream of agony rented the air again as the finger dropped on the table. I picked it up and looked at it, not quite impressive but there's more from where that came from.