Young woman spreads gossip.
The metal slid down along my throat, trailing a line of chill over my skin. Involuntarily, I swallowed hard, the edge shifting against me. My mind was a whirlwind. He's not cutting me . . . not yet. My god what is he planning? I knew he took great pride in his boyhood knife, still carried it in his back pocket. But mostly what was filling my mind at that moment was how he always made sure its edge was keen. I had a flash to just the day before when he had honed the blade and checked its sharpness by slashing cuts through the edge of a piece of paper.
The tip of the blade pressed against the hollow of my throat, a pinprick on my skin. The blade turned in his hand . . . the edge . . . my god where was he going to use the edge?
The fabric of my T-shirt parted like a whisper cutting through silence. I sagged against the bed, suddenly aware of the tension in my arms and legs. He worked deftly, almost surgically, slitting the shirt from my body, leaving only my bra. My nipples were chips of stone, hard, begging for his touch, his mouth, the smooth fabric of my bra feeling like a prison for them, but he moved on.
The tip of the knife dimpled my skin again, tracing tiny circles. It's sharp enough that I might not even feel it if he cuts me. He slid the blade flat against my stomach, the tip pushing under the waistband of my jeans.
"No, baby these are my good-" My protest was cut short by his hand on my mouth, gripping my face roughly. I felt the bed shift, his mouth pressed to my ear.
"I warned you. Now I am telling you. The next time you open your mouth, I'm going to smack your pretty face. If you understand, then you will nod. Don't speak even to answer me. Clear?" My cunt throbbed and I nodded as best I could in his grip.
He put his hand back on the handle of the knife, twisting it suddenly, jerking the metal against my skin. The denim tore under his attack, but not nearly as easily as my thin shirt. He slit my jeans all the way down one slender leg, then back up the other. His hands finished the job, ripping the fabric from my body, casting it aside.
The warm air of the room caressed my bare skin and I flushed when I realized how wet I was. I was sure he could see the effect he had on me, knew that the thin white cotton panties I was wearing were no doubt slick with my heat, almost transparent against wet flesh. I twisted as best I could against my restraints, wanting his touch, any touch against my sex. My body craved him in a way I had never felt before, made all the worse for the way he seemingly ignored my need.
He lay the open knife on my stomach and got up from the bed. Again, I was lost, adrift. I wanted to know where he was, but the music and the blindfold stymied my efforts. All I could feel was a burning, growing lust in the centre of my being like a burning coal. I could catch snippets of activity, a half-heard movement on the hardwood, a rustle of something moving, but other than that I was alone.
His hand closed over the handle of the knife and I felt his warmth near me again. As his legs touched mine I realized he had stripped and was lying with me, naked. His cock brushed against my leg and I bit my lip to stifle the low, shuddering moan that filled my throat. He was hard, so hard, slick with precum, and obviously as aching with need as I was.
James moved again, the bed rocking under his weight. Suddenly I felt his knees on either side of my head, and his cock against my cheek, slicking my skin with his precum. I leaned my head back towards him, lips parted, tongue seeking his manhood. My lips closed over the swollen head, filling my mouth with the taste of him.
"Jessusssssss. . . ." he hissed.
His hand cupped the back of my head, and he slid his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into my mouth.