"Cal!" I gasp when I feel the wide edge of the handle coast against my clit and come to a rest at my entrance.
"Too much?" He croons, leaning forward to capture my bottom lip between his.
His kiss is slow and teasing as he pulls my lip between his own and sucks until I'm sure I'll be bruised tomorrow.
I didn't expect to like wearing his bruises, but fuck if I don't feel like a goddamn queen when I spot them the next day, decorating my body like merit badges. The evidence of what we did always makes me smile as I recall how the bruises got there and how his teeth felt sinking into me just enough to make my blood rush harder through my veins.
When he pulls away, it's clear he's waiting for an answer, but I don't remember what answer he’s waiting for... until I feel the knife handle at my entrance and my eyes roll. I think my moan is answer enough, but Cal takes no chances. He always demands that I use my words.
"No. It's not enough."
That seems to snap some kind of restraint in him, because he groans into my mouth, and then I feel him pushing the knife inside me.
The handle is thick and long, and as he parts me with it, I moan. I'm not going to be able to hold off if he actually starts moving it.
It hits all the right spots, and as his fingers caress my throat, my eyes feel like they're going to roll back.
"Stay here." He tells me, a plea disguised as a command. "Watch me fuck you."
I gasp, opening my eyes to see him just before me, his eyes intense as he watches me, our lips inches away. But he doesn't kiss me. Instead, he luxuriates in every sound he pulls out of me as he pulls the knife back and thrusts in again, his motions controlled. I don't look down to see if he's taken care to wrap his hand or if the blade is biting into him.
"Oh, God." I moan, the absolute debauchery of what we're doing washing over me.
"God doesn't own you, little doll. Your soul doesn't belong to him. Your body..." He punctuates his words with a thrust that sends me to the edge. It doesn't push me over. His next words do that all on their own.
"When we turn to stardust, you will still be mine. There's no escape."
I sob when my attempt to hold back my release fails, frustration and pleasure bursting together in beautiful technicolor.
I hold tight to the orgasm as he fucks me with the knife, not letting me come down. He’s got me captive and powerless, and he takes full advantage, stoking the flames until I'm digging at his arms, as desperate for him to stop as I am for him to continue.
He can take a hint, easing the knife out from between us. But he doesn't throw it away. He holds it between us, the strobing flashes of light illuminating the handle, slick and glistening with the proof of my orgasm. It also reveals his hand, wrapped around the blade, trails of blood streaming out from around his fingers. I'm about to snatch his wrist to check his wound when he presses me against the wall, tipping the blade between us and turning his fist so that the handle rests against my lips, blood running down to me.
"Taste us, little doll. Taste how fucking good we are together."
It's sick, but it's the hottest fucking thing I've ever heard of. This is one I don't think I can even begin to unpack with our therapist. But that doesn't stop me from opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out, and letting him slide the weapon over the flat of it.
He's fucking right. We do taste good together.
His tongue darts out to lick the other side of the handle, catching the blood and spit I don't.
He groans, and then the knife is gone, clattering to the floor as he grips the back of my neck, tugging my head back so that he can devour me.
And he does devour me. Consumes me. Brands his name on my soul, which tries to leave my body when he drops his pants and slides into me in one go. I'm soaked, making it easy for him to sink inside of me as I hang onto him for dear life.
He urges me onto my tiptoes, but it's not enough to give him the leverage he needs, so I jump. He catches me beneath the ass, keeping me connected to him as Cal spins me, pressing me against the wall again.
This angle traps me in place, keeping me from rocking onto my toes to try and escape the pressure he builds quickly inside of me.
"Cal!" I cry because it feels like he's filling me; the pressure is too much. "Fuck! I need you to move."
"I need you not to." He grunts, his lips ghosting against the back of my ear and making me clench. He groans, burying his face in my shoulder. "Let me fuck you."
"Please." I beg. He's not even edging me, but waiting for the friction is killing me. "Fuck me. Use me, Cal."
His fingers close on the sides of my neck, offering me just enough pressure to remind me that he's there, that he's in control.
And as long as he's in control, I don't have to be.
