VISCERA

Emily Bingham

Knives have never turned me on before, so I think it surprises us both when I ask my lover, “Would you cut me?”

“Of course!” he says, smiling slyly, always game to explore new things. His eagerness almost makes me regret asking. Almost. But I trust him, knowing it’s because he cares that he’s able to dole out the pain I regularly solicit.

I watch nervously as he reaches to his back pocket where the knife sits, the clip of it always peeking out of his jeans. Until this moment, I’ve never considered it as anything other than a practical tool.

With a flick of his wrist, the blade clicks open. He draws out the moment, letting the light glint off the razor-thin blade with its intimidating point. My entire body thrums.

He keeps his distance, looking me over, savoring the tension and the tease. I take in the knife and his face, unsure when he’ll make a move. My fear has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my own hunger. I’m wet simply from watching him.

Soon the fingers of his free hand tug at my dress. I pull it over my head as he takes a step back to watch, the open blade held casually at his side.

When I’m seated again he places the knife in my bare lap and says, “Hold this.”

Paralyzed, I focus on the tip poking my thigh where it dimples the soft skin. He steps out of his clothes while I’m too distracted to enjoy the show, focusing instead on the dangerous promise of the knife. So it’s a relief when he removes it from my lap, yanks off my underthings, and pushes me down on the bed.

My nudity feels especially vulnerable tonight, and he toys with that feeling by wordlessly walking away; I watch his delicious body round the corner into the bathroom. I hear water run and the medicinal scent of alcohol wafts through the room as I realize he’s preparing himself for the minor surgery about to be performed.

When he returns his touch is a balm against anxiety. I smile and lean into him, my gaze pinned to the knife. He kisses along my neck, playing innocent, but I stiffen to watch him pull the blade between us.

Our eyes meet and I don’t dare look elsewhere. He slides slowly down my body to kneel between my legs, denying me the contact with his skin I’m longing for, parting us to assure his concentration. The intensity of his gaze is intimidating.

He’s silent as he raises the blade so I can watch the course he draws in the air between himself and the target he’s decided upon—the crook of my thigh where leg meets hip, so close to crotch as to be nearly indistinguishable.

I gasp as the impersonal metal presses into my flesh. He grins wickedly. Again the blade only dimples my skin; no blood yet as he continues to tease me.

His grasp on the knife handle changes suddenly as the blade makes purchase with my flesh; the surprise is greater than the pain. The only sensation is cold metal and my heart racing in response. The cut is finished in an instant.

My brow furrows as I suck in a breath and look down, but the cut is so superficial that it barely bleeds. It’s more of a scratch, which part of me is disappointed by.

“Ready?” he asks, bracing the dull side of the blade with his index finger, preparing for the next cut. This is so visceral, so intimate, that tears well in my eyes. I nod. Immediately he’s in action, creating a second and third cut identical and parallel to the first. Endorphins and dopamine flood my body as I struggle to catch my breath.

Soon he adds a fourth cut, this one deeper, and now there’s blood and a blaze of heat. Rivulets so red they’re almost black dance down the curve of my thigh. My vision blurs and my body swims; I feel made entirely of liquid until his fingers replace the knife, bringing me back to earth.

Setting the blade aside, he cleans the wound with a stab of isopropyl alcohol. Though his blade felt like barely anything, this stings and causes me to cry out. I hiccup around a breath and he stops, allowing the blood to creep to the surface again. We observe this small red river traversing the whiteness of my leg.

His body language changes suddenly as he stands, his cock popping free and rising to full mast, a display of the pleasure he’s taken in his work. I reach to touch him but he pins my arms above my head with a single hand. I was so sure the game of power given and taken was over that I gasp.

I kiss along his neck, and his stiffness resting on my belly jumps. He’s so near and yet so far away from where I long for him. I nuzzle my face and crotch against his and he sighs. Rather than giving in to temptation, he lifts away, using his legs to force mine wide and bring his hips close. I could have him if I angle my body just so, but his stern expression suggests I not try.

The Rorschach blot of blood that’s seeped from my body decorates his where our legs met. He glances at this messy design, then at me, predatorily. With his free hand he grasps his cock, stroking it; I lick my lips. On a downstroke he uses his hardness to slap the marks on my leg, reopening the wound. He slaps me again and again with his cock until the ache he’s awakening in those cuts is enough that I try to wiggle away, but splayed open and pinned down, there isn’t anywhere for me to go.

He’s motionless, cock resting in the tiny puddle of blood on my leg. Chuckling, he uses his hips to trace circles in it, reddening the head. Blood is so easily spread that this looks more frightening than it really is and I’m surprised to find this titillating.

Suddenly he’s inside me to the hilt, blood and all. When he releases my hands I pull him closer, with no concern for keeping away the stab of discomfort when my leg rubs against him. After the long anticipation, the pain doled out expertly, it isn’t long before we’re both on edge. I can’t bear to wait, allowing myself to cross over into orgasm.

When his turn comes, he draws out, stroking himself at my thigh. I grin to watch him climax, his whole body goosefleshed and quivering in aftershocks.

He collapses onto me for a kiss and when he pulls away our fronts are smeared in stains of color, a mixture of blood and come, the vitality of our bodies intermingling. I twirl my finger through the vastly different textures, painting the creamy opal in with the slippery claret red to fashion a testament to what our dark desires have created.