They’ve played with knives before – sliced through rope and tape. Her second favorite bra. Blade on her clit. Blade on his cock. Pressure. Testing. Implication. Never a cut though. Never quite a cut….
But they’ve talked about it. They’ve talked a lot.
“Would you really let me cut you?”
She asks again one night. They’ve fucked each other senseless and she’s tucked in his arms, lulled by the scent of his skin.
He’s quiet. She waitsthe answer in his pulse.
“Yes,” he finally says. She feels it land, like a penny in her palm. Yes,” he says again. “But don’t fuck around.”
She nods, keen and bright as a fox.
“Of course. You know I won’t.”
The knife they usually play with is in a drawer by the bed, but she doesn’t get that knife. Instead, she goes to the bathroom. The straight razor is old, perfect and old, made when things were meant to last. It unfolds in her hand like a memory…gnarled hands, lather, a boar bristle brush…. This razor has a history. It’s touched a lot of skin. Now, it’s going to touch more.
He props himself up on his elbows when she comes back in. The razor is folded, snug and safe, like a slender bird sleeping in her palm.
“Tape,” he asks.
She knows he won’t like it – he’d rather be restrained. It’s so much easier when you pretend there’s no choice. But she likes him unbound and he knows it. He knows and he’ll do it for her.
He nods. Her eyes soften. She straddles him and pins his arms wide. Her own Vitruvian Man.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Keep your arms here. Now, be very still.”
His hands look relaxed but they’re not. She can tell. But he’ll keep them where they are. It’s a matter of principle. She’s done the same for him. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again. But not tonight. Tonight is for her, and the razor waits in the pocket of her palm.
He stretches out beneath her, all angles and shadows, like a poster for a film. Beautiful, she thinks. Her belly is tight as she moves down his body dropping a kiss on every rib.
One. Two. Three. Four…
She stops and nuzzles his skin. This is where, she thinks. She traces his ribs with her fingertips before pressing her tongue between two. Then, she slowly opens the blade. It settles in her hand. A fine, familiar weight.
Ripples under his skin though his body barely moves. There is no playfulness, no showmanship, no levity in her now. Afterwards she’ll smile and laugh with him, but for now, she’s blank and calm. For now, she’s holding a razor like a natural part of her hand.
On either side of his body, his fingers tremble.
Fuck. Get on with it.
She ignores his impatience and touches the blade to the tender place she’d kissed, waiting for it to breach his skin. And then it does and his skin isn’t skin anymore. It’s the silk and thread and rope.
He flinches and stills, palms flat against the sheets while her steady hand guides the edge along his rib. Once inch…two…and then it’s time to stop. She blinks as her focus widens back out. Then she sits up, resting her cunt against his cock while she folds and locks the blade.
Nothing at first. His skin looks untouched. But then blood wells up, almost black in the darkness, darker than red should be. She looks at him. He looks at her. They’ve talked about this too. He nods. She smiles and presses her tongue to the wound.
It tastes like salted metal, like blood should taste, but better because it’s his. But the cut is shallow and there isn’t much, so she worries it with her tongue, lapping and pressing and sucking up what his body naturally gives. She’s soaked and sliding over him when she sinks down on his cock.
Her hands clamp over his as he starts to thrust, pinning him with her weight. Then she kisses the wound. When she comes, her mouth is red, red and full of him.
They rest afterward, his hand in her hair. Her lips are red as berries but her teeth are shining white. She smiles against his skin.
“Next time, it’s your turn.”