Dinner And A Show 2

With anyone else, this would be torture. My hands knead your bound flesh, teasing moans and cries from you, sweat making you glisten in the sacred moonlight. I smother a laugh as I think about dinner, candlelight, playfully holding hands. Your eyes, enchanting, as you said, "But you'd never hurt me, would you?"

I tore my shirt over my head. When it caught I yanked until buttons sprang away like white butterflies, fluttering and clattering on the floor. I heard your breath catch in your throat, seeing me move, seeing uncaring force exercised so near your naked, unprotected body. Your hands are bound above your head, but I see the subtle way you press your legs together, rubbing your thighs- making a spark, knowing soon I'll build you a fire. I leaned into you, breathing your breath, looking into your eyes- wide and dark with arousal, every instant of this recorded, remembered, putting you into the dream.

If this were anyone else- my hand sliding down your pale flesh to between your thighs, my mouth grinding against yours hard and fast to keep you from biting me- this would be rape.

When my fingers brush you, there, I feel nothing but wetness. Your eyes close with pleasure, your lips curl in an involuntary smile, but I know that if I kiss you now you won't hesitate to draw blood from my mouth.

My subtle hands learn you, trace your contours, finding the delicate structures of pleasure in the wet warmth between your legs, making you gasp and moan against your will. I remember your playful flirting smile over dinner. "So what are you into?"

"The usual things- music, literature, expensive cars, making money-"

"That's not what I meant." Your head turned slightly away, that smile at the corner of your mouth.

"I know." I cut my steak, then held the knife for a moment and moved it easily from one grip to another, watching the reflection in your eyes, seeing you fascinated- Now I draw my thin, sharp switchblade from my back pocket and press it (flat side first, I know how to play) against your throat.

Your breath catches again and you glare, and for an instant I think I've gone too far. Instead, "You'll never get away with this, you evil fuck."

Let's play. "Evil fuck? I'd get used to it if I were you... I've got you all night, and I'll do whatever I want to you."

You can barely stifle your moan.

This time, when I kiss you, you manage to kiss back disdainfully. Your facility with contempt will always amaze me.

I kiss down your body, loving it through a lens of torturous debauchery. Your pale skin and muscle, slicked with sweat now, shines in the moonlight, and you are an ever-shifting statue, an animated artifact sculpted from pleasure.

When I kiss you between your legs, you moan and buck. You try to curse me for it, tell me I'm disgusting and a pervert for doing something so intimately vile. I don't stop.

With anyone else, this would be a gift, but with you nothing is ever so simple.

I hold your thighs with my hands, making a show of holding you open, and kiss and lick your slit, my tongue following the outlines of pleasure my hands had traced. Your nervature is so responsive and delicate that every stroke makes you moan, and when I gently slip two fingers into you and crook them your mouth falls open wordlessly. I play you like an instrument, bringing you to your peak like a symphony, and to my joy I find that your climax is repeatable, that once you come, you can still keep arriving. I keep after you, burning your volition away with lust, until you scream and cry out my name, helpless and betrayed by your own body- blessedly annihilated in pleasure.

Now I have you, helpless and spread and bound, and I am wracked with pleasure. I slip a condom (the unfortunate but vital hallmark of a distrustful generation, some call it, but I'll wear whatever it takes to fuck you) over myself, and catch your lustful eyes following my hands, observing me and my own body hungrily. I line myself up with you. I allow myself a moment of tenderness, brushing your hair back and kissing your forehead. You snap at me and struggle so fiercely I hear the rope groan in sympathy. "You bastard," you whisper, your eyes still dim with release and your body glistening with sweat. "You'll never get away with this..."

In response, I thrust into you. For some reason, I am reminded of the sound of your key slipping into your lock, the inviting smile over your shoulder as I followed you into your darkened hallway.

The pleasure is intense, dissolving. Your cunt is tight and wet, gripping me, and your writhing, wriggling hips are accents to on each thrust's burst of sensation. I moan and cry out, losing my character in the heat of your body, and soon we are a duet, moaning and grinding together. I snake a hand between our bodies and tease your pearl between thrusts, your response is a gasp of pleasure and renewed savagery in your hips.

I grab your legs and pull them apart and up, changing my angle into you- my cock strikes the special secret spot inside you, and each thrust draws a gasp from you- I can feel you twitching and twisting internally, drawing your pleasure from me.

With anyone else, this would be simple, easy. Instead I flip open the knife and press the tip into the soft flesh just below your left breast, gently, and press my left hand up into your throat- finding your airway, and with a lover's sensual precision, cutting it off. I remembered the hug right before dinner. You had put your hand up against my throat and purred that my tie was maybe a bit much. I had just smiled- the position of your hand against my veins had given away one of your darker pleasures. And that pleasure is again too much. You come, and cry out gasping, and I reflect that a more attentive lover would've gagged you. Not too late... but I can feel a tightening, a sort of nauseous lightning, in my belly that means it will be soon.

I watch your eyes closely. When I see your hands tighten and your eyes widen, I relax my grip completely. "You monster," you say in a hoarse purr, your eyes still still dilated. I am not convinced.

I renew my savagery, thrusting harder and harder, and I feel you beginning to approach another peak of your own- and I can't have that, not yet. I turn my knife and press the blade against your flesh- the closer you get, the harder I push down, I use the pain to hold you back, knowing that when you overcome it you will enjoy it that much more. Your gasps and cries turn frantic- you know just what I'm doing and you disapprove, for as long as you have strength to. All I can think about is pleasure, and speed, and strength. My mind is shot through with annihilating joy, my body filled with power. I can feel it like electricity, and oddly enough, it arcs through me- in through my thrusting cock, and out in that sweeter, more vicious penetration- the long slow slash I am making along the very surface of your side, the shallow groove that cuts just above your heart. For an instant, your moans turn to some kind of timeless smoke in the air around me, and the arc completes.

When you feel the loss of my control- and my rapid retraction of the knife (silvered by moonlight and dark with your blood), and with it the burning, distracting pain- the combination is too much, and your hips fill with white lightning. Your scream is appropriate to someone stabbed much more vitally, but as I fall down to you in satisfaction, I know enough to hear it as applause.

It feels like ages, but when I recover enough to withdraw from you and look down at my work, you're still breathing hard from your last cry. We wince and gasp in unison at the tiny shock of separation after such furious union, and we both smile a little at the other's reaction.

A thin line of blood is running down your side. It fascinates me- a perfect little river fleeing the ocean of your body. I can't stop myself- I lean forward and kiss the blood, gently licking up to clean the wound. You gasp, then relax and sink back. Exhausted, I sip daintily of your blood, your flesh.

Finally I reach up and cut your hands free with quick, savage strokes of the knife. As soon as I free you, your hands are about me, slowly pressing my mouth back to your wound. "Drink me," you whisper, and your blood is wine in my mouth, your perfect white skin the lips of the glass.

I drink you, and drink you, until the blood stops running. I think back to dinner and pouring the last glass of wine, seeing the sparkle in your eyes, knowing where we were going soon, enjoying the space between seducing you and having you.

"You never told me what you were into," you had asked, smiling flirtily. I dipped a fingertip into your wine glass, and drew a thin line of crimson on the back of your hand. Then I lifted it to my lips and kissed it away, hoping you noticed.

"I'm into you," I whispered.

"Eat your meat," you said, your smile becoming a grin, "you'll need your protein."