Either way, I want to test those limits.
I move the knife, teasing either side with the blade and watching her react, then overreact in the opposite direction, then react again. She’s trying not to move, her hands fisting above her head, but wriggling and squirming in her efforts to stay still.
A sheen of wetness clings to her inside flesh, the prettiest shades of pink, from the palest rose to the flushed intensity of crimson.
As I watch, she becomes more aroused, now slick with her own fluids. Beautiful. Entrancing.
When I lay the tip of the knife against her inner folds, her thighs briefly squeeze and I hold my breath, wondering if the change in pressure is enough to cause an injury.
She makes a sound, a slow whimper like she’s sprung a leak. I move the blade, cautious, careful, wanting all the sensation of danger but not wanting to hurt her beyond the fear.
I withdraw it, turning the knife and placing the handle against her entrance. The whimper turns to a gasp, but she’s stillbeing such an obedient girl for me. Even though she doesn’t know the blade now faces away from her. I increase the pressure and lean forward, placing my tongue against the handle, against her. Licking as her wetness increases, welcoming the invasion, inviting it inside.
“Do you want me to fuck you with it?” I ask in a low whisper. “Are you going to be a good girl and let me fuck you with my knife?”
She inhales a gasp and I take that as an invitation, inserting the handle two inches inside her. As her thighs twitch, I wonder what it feels like. To be in such a vulnerable position with someone she doesn’t know.
To think at any moment, she might feel the sharp pain as I slice her insides.
If I could rewind, this would be how I’d make her come. Not with my tongue but with a knife, drawing an orgasm out of her with the constant threat of injury propelling it forward.
Perhaps later if my hand is equal to the challenge. I’d hate for the tremor of a hangover to turn the intended pleasure into accidental pain.
But for now, I’ve seen enough. I want more than a tease.
I withdraw the knife, sucking her juices off the handle. I grip it in my fist and put it to the side, where she can see it and know it isn’t still poised ready to slice through her skin.
Getting to my knees, I move up her body again until I’m staring directly down at her. With my right hand, I hold the knife against the bed, visible from the corner of her eye if she glances in that direction.
My left hand grips her chin, ensuring we’re face to face. Even with her head held steady, her eyes escape to the side.
“Look at me,” I command in a low voice, as gentle as I can make it with my thickening vocal cords.
She forces herself to comply, teeth tugging on her bottom lip before a wince shows I’ve left it in too tender a state to do that. Her blinks multiply, tumbling over themselves to offer a brief respite, a rest, a tiny break in having to meet my gaze. Fluttering like she’s trying to flirt with a stranger across a crowded dancefloor, when I know the reverse is true.
“You want me to fuck you or cut you?”
Her arms jump, the muscles trying out fight or flight on their limited scale. Her nostrils pull together and I wait, wondering if she’s going to lose her current battle and give in to tears as sweet as the one I sampled earlier.
The last time I asked a girl this question, she collapsed into hysterics, pleading with me not to hurt her, tears and hitching breaths and squeaks and plea after plea after plea while snot ran down her blotchy face.
But George rallies. I’m almost pulling for her when she whispers, “Fuck me.”
“Take your bra off.” I lean over to stab the knife into my bedside table, the wood scarred where I’ve done it a dozen times before. When she scrabbles behind her back in a panic, I cup her shoulders, holding her steady. “Slowly. I’m not in any hurry tonight. Make it sexy.”
The order wipes her brain for a split second, and she freezes, then manages a watery smile. She slips her arm from one strap, then holds the cups in place while she reaches for the other, and abruptly stops moving altogether.
“Come on,” I say in encouragement, wriggling my fingertips close to the lower edge. “It’s far too late to be shy.”
The panic in her eyes increases at my words and I notice she’s gripping one side of her bra more than the other.
“Put your hands above your head again,” I whisper, curious what she’s hiding in there. The world’s tiniest knife? Anotherjewellery case? A nipple ring that got knocked askew during the evening.
My mouth waters at the last; I can feel the sharp zing of metal against my tongue. She takes an age to follow my instructions and when she does, I see the crinkle of plastic poking from the side of her cup.
“You got on my case about drinking but you’re hiding drugs?” I say, gleefully pulling her stash out and shaking the tiny baggie in front of her. “What’re these? Oxy? Molly?”
She shakes her head, tongue nervously darting out to wet her lips. “They’re like Xanax?”
