Lace. White virgin lace and crimson slut red. Sweet fucking Jesus, it ought to be a crime to dress him in anything else.
The blood is still fresh, trailing in perfect streaks down across his trembling stomach. Frightened, pet? Don't be. You want this, you know you do. Such a fuss at first, all riled up and arguing; you'll let me fuck you raw but this? No, never, too much dignity lost, too far out there, they all call you pretty and this just touched a nerve. It was nothing you wanted any part of.
Liar.
Sheer white silk, like cool ice to the touch; I rolled them up your bare legs and clipped the garter in place to keep them there. Your cheeks were flushed red and you wouldn't meet my eyes, but your body doesn't lie like your mouth does. You were hard already and you shivered when I slid the shoes over your feet and strapped the buckles around your ankles, tight enough to make you wince.
But lies off your tongue are sweet to hear - go on, say it again. Tell me you didn't moan when I made you stand up. Tell me your breath didn't catch the first time you felt it, the stretch across your bound instep, the burn in your calves as the heels forced you to your toes and the smooth slide of silk between your bare thighs. Sweet God, but the move of your hips when you walked across the room would make a man weep. You look like a fucking wet dream.
Open your eyes, pet. *Look*. That image staring back at us out of the mirror is *perfect*, absolutely fucking *perfect*. The little noises you made as I let the tip of the blade play across your chest were all the hotter for it, gasped and mewling, the image and sound of tarnished innocence. Virgin blood, slicking white pale skin and sliding down to stain dark against the fabric at your waist.
It slides up so easily, doesn't it? Nothing but a scrap of pleated fabric held on with little gold buckles, and it almost matches the grey of your eyes if they weren't darkened to hazy black right now. Pushed up in the back, with the tight curve of your bare ass pressed hot to my hips, but in front where the mirror can see, you might almost be decent... almost, but God, the flash of garter and skin beneath the skirt hem is mesmerizing. Angel and slut, all at once, and that's what you are, aren't you? Perfect little boy by day, but the slut inside wants out. You want to be pushed, you want a little force, you want the edge. That's why you're here. That's why *I'm* here.
My hand on your thigh makes you flinch and shiver. Open your eyes. Imagine it. I could let the knife play over your thighs, sharp steel just below that fragile pules that beats so fast in the curve of your hip. The blood would well up thick and hot, but drop the skirt hem down and no one would ever see. Not until it seeped down, crimson bright, dripping wet between your thighs to stain scarlet over white silk stockings... virgin blood, and your knees pressed tight, but it's too late for that, far too late.
Or I could just reach beneath that hem and take you in hand. Hard and fast, just the way you like it. Would you like that? No, keep your fucking eyes open. *Look*. Do you know what you look like when you come? Ever wondered? Stripped naked and raw, open mouthed and gasping with those little cries you try to swallow... They think you're made of ice. Wouldn't the suits in your office like to see you like this? Pristine little corporate girl by day but your mouth lies, the clothes lie - only your body tells the truth, taut and writhing, hot and ready, back arched and hips trembling as you let my hand fuck you.
