04 January, 2011

The Knife

Steel is like ice, cold and unused. Bared in play, at the ready, it warms to the skin, as the flat is revealed and warmed by an expert.

She laid the blade on his shoulder with the air and practice of years of knowledge.

His pulse thumped in response to the knife. Inches from his neck, it bit with cold.

"Can you feel how sharp it is?" She pulled the blade backward so the steel dragged along his skin. "The nip of its frost."

His breath caught.

Lifting the blade, she put it back where it began.

He could feel the thick warmth reaching up for the knife. The thud as it surged, fighting its way up his blood stream.

A horn blared outside.

Startled him, and he jerked.

The blade shifted.

But his skin tried to reach for it, to lay itself open, the raw edge of razor sharp.

"Easy, pet." Her voice was thick like syrup.

The hammer of his heart didn't care, would not be still. The knife, cold and hard was warming, drawing the heat from his skin and he wanted it, that heat in him. His pulse sounded time with his need. Read on >>

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