Snick....tick....Snick...tick...Is that the sound? Or, is it more...click....or...sschrrick....? No, it's definitely snick...tick...snick...tick. She cannot see. It's dark as pitch beneath the blindfold. He has made certain the sense of sight is eliminated from her choices tonight. Her other senses, however, have kicked up a notch to compensate.
She can feel. The coolness of the sheet underneath her naked body. The pressure of the blindfold across her eyes, the bridge of her nose. The knot it's made at the top of her head, tangling her hair. The rope he used to bind her wrists together above her head. And the feel of her own interlocked fingers. Trying to be still and not fidget.
She can hear. Her own heartbeat thudding in her chest, blood pounding in her ears. The cadence of his breathing, his steps, as he prowls all around her. Stalking his prey. Her. And still, that rhythmic snick...tick...snick...tick.
Her tongue holds the vague remnants of the vodka soda she drank. She can taste, too, the whiskey he was drinking. Before his mouth ravaged her own. Just before the tables turned.
And smell. The girl can smell so many things. The vodka. The whiskey. The dirt in the plant she knows is in the corner, just to her left...no...on her right. She can smell the particular aroma of the soap he used to wash his hands. The conditioner in her knotted hair. And two distinct musky scents.
First is him. Dark and intoxicating. His satisfied arousal at finally having her bound and vulnerable. The small droplet of pre-cum poised on the very tip of his cock. And second, her own heady musk. Her pussy is literally dripping - with excitement and anticipation; knowing this, tonight, will be a vivid core moment of her submission to him. Bigger. Deeper. More solid than most of the others combined.
And THERE. There it is. That special sense the two of them share together. A connection. His control. Her submission. His need. Her trust. Him, taking everything she has to give, and vice versa. To where they are both fulfilled. A balance. That is real and palpable and heightened especially for moments like this.
Snick...tick....snick.....Quiet. She can't hear him move anymore. She's lost track. She doesn't know where he is. He is close. But he is breathing too quietly for her to hear. Surely finding his focus, waiting for his moment. Waiting for her.
She hears him. Closer than expected. A deep commanding whisper, not to be disobeyed.
"Don't move"
Involuntarily, she does. She cannot control these things. A breath. Her nipples hardening. Her pussy clenching. Her clit beginning to pulse with want. Need.
And then she feels it.
The cold steel, the flat of the blade. Touching down underneath her left breast. His favorite. Slowly traveling up, the sharp edge just barely skimming the edge of the peak of her nipple. Up and over, until the point of the blade drags across the top of her breast. Digging in. Not quite enough pressure to break the skin...maybe...She won't know until he is finished with her. And, in truth, she does not care.
All she cares about right now is the feel of the knife point as it moves up her chest. To her collarbone. And then the sound....
She is grateful to be laying down. Her knees go weak and if she'd been standing, she would have crumpled to the floor in ecstasy. Pleasure at the eroticism of the scrape of the metal against metal.
The blade of the knife sliding along the edge of the metal collar she wore for tonight's other scene. This collar is heavier than the others she's worn. But it was a perfect complement to the emerald green corset she had been wearing while she throated his cock. Earlier. Before the tides turned and she was here, at his mercy.
The knife. She can't feel it anymore.
Snick...tick...snick...tick...snick......Ahhh, there he is. Down at her feet.
"Good girl."
She is quiet, No words are allowed unless he asks her a direct question.
"Very good girl."
The point of the blade. She can feel it. The tips of her toes on her right foot...slowly,he is taking his time. Lightly traveling to her foot, her ankle, up her shin, the side of her knee..the inside of her thigh. Increasing pressure and force, but not speed, the further up her leg he drags the blade.
Inside, she is building up. Ready to feel the knifepoint glide up to the apex. Past her leg now and so so close to her pussy.....but nothing. No point. No blade. Nothing.
Until she feels the cold touch at the tip of her left foot. Following the same path, he moves up her left leg. And again, teasing her unmercifully. Pulling away just as she was READY. Ready to feel the cold, the sharpness.
Silence again. But tension building. Anticipation. And then that connection kicks in, once more. And with it, the peaceful knowledge that she is in her place, at his mercy.
The edge of the blade touches her under her right breast. More pressure than he has used before. Moving quick and sharp from right to left. She can feel the tip dig in as he is about to lift the blade. She KNOWS there is blood. There will be a mark.
He travels back the way he came. Leaving a mark and drawing a bead of blood so her right side matches her left.
He sets the point of the blade in the center of her chest. Pressure. Then easing up as he drags the knife down the center of her belly. Making a circle, then another, around her navel. The second pass, he digs deeper before moving further down.
But still not down enough to give her what he knows she is craving.
She is already marked. Permanently. His. And he moves the blade to her left hip. His mark is a beacon.
"Mine"
She wants to respond. It is a part of her. "Yours." But she is a good girl and does as she is told.
No talking.
"Good girl"
He runs the knife around the edges of her mark. And then she can feel it.His attention, his focus, shifts.
He has found a place to make a new mark. Her body is his. A canvas for his carvings if he chooses. And tonight, he has chosen.
"Mine"
Line by perfect, painstaking line.
He carves the word he wrote:
Under his favorite breast, just to the left, along her ribs. He marked her again.
MINE
The sting of each stroke. The burn. The pain. It is perfect.
He takes his time. Making sure each line is deep, lasting.
She needs the pain as much as she needs the mark.
And he needs her trust in him as much as he needs to use her.
