“Time for games” he said. Tuesday. Early work finish day. New underwear day.
I had got home before him, so was lying face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling when he arrived, the skein of rope lying across my stomach. Naked.
I heard the door unlocked, opened, shut.
“Just going for a piss.” He called out. He wasn’t, he was just making me wait. Teasing.
“Resting bitch face isn’t actually a thing.” He said when he finally walked through the doorway, most unimpressed with my pouting. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.”
He held the paper bag above his head.
“Freshly laundered, Madame.”
I held up my legs expectantly, but he waited until my tensed thighs began to shake and I was gritting my teeth, then he fitted the knickers onto me, patting my mound. They were full, white and virginal. Lace panels through which you could faintly see the dark hair of my cunt.
“Good girl. Now hold out your arms.”
He looped the bra onto me, then plucked the rope away. I spread-eagled and left him to work. My back felt taut. My legs parted for him and only him. He undid his tie.
“What games today?” He said, twisting it in his hand. “Denial? Pleasure beyond control? Would you like me to throat fuck you?” I smiled to all of these, but he shook his head.
“No, not tonight.”
And he stepped from the room. From the differing noise of his tread I traced him to the kitchen, where he seemed to open every cupboard, rattling every cup. Maybe he was going to cook himself a whole meal, leaving me here to twist against my bindings, whip myself into a frenzy before he came back, untied me and used my mouth and cunt for whatever he wanted. I wanted that. I wanted whatever he wanted.
I heard him walking back. Turning on the hall light. He stood in the bedroom doorway once more, and I saw something flash before he turned the bedroom light off.
“Do you know what I have in my hand, Kitten?”
It was smooth and cold against my belly.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?”
He pressed it flat into my flesh. It was sharp.
“Are you excited?”
I felt the very tip of the blade dragged from my belly button, down over my stomach and the wet material between my thighs.
“Do you think I can make you come using just this knife? I think we should try, don’t you?”
I realised. It was the butcher’s knife from the kitchen. For display only. It had been used once, at a barbecue, to slice lemons when every other sharp implement was otherwise in use.
He used it as he used his tongue, tracing lightly over my body, pressing firmly where he knew the plump flesh hid my stiff, throbbing clit. It didn’t take long for goosebumps to rise on my skin, for me to mew at him, which of course was how I got my pet name.
I knew the knife was sharp. I knew one false move could have consequences.
I didn’t fucking care.
“More.” I moaned and he pressed harder, I felt the material tear and the blade even icier on my exposed cunt. Even he seemed surprised that the material had given way with so little resistance. He dragged the blade down and we heard the lace rip. He seemed to like this even more, and briefly diverted his attentions to the tight material over my stomach, passing the edge under the leg of the briefs and slicing upwards and outwards, shredding the expensive lingerie. Quickly, my belly was exposed, criss crossed with red tramlines from his manipulations. I strained to look at them, the pretty red crosses made me feel funny.
“Are you close?” He said, breathlessly. I nodded. I didn’t know why, but I was.
“Good.” He flipped the knife over and grabbed the handle between his fingers, plunging it deep into my cunt. The end curved outwards, touching me exactly where you’d expect. He shoved it in almost angrily, I worried the blade was hurting him but was soon lost to the sensation, the pounding inside me and when I came, the knife was pulled from my cunt and the handle shoved in my mouth. He had taken a photo before I was even aware of myself again.
“My beautiful pervert.” He sighed.