CW: Knife Play (though not quite what you might expect)
“Have I really not shown you the meat cleaver?” H asked.
I shook my head.
Is it worrying that I didn’t even question that H had a meat cleaver in their kit bag? To be fair, it’s pretty on brand for H.
It was the end of a couple of days together. We’d snuggled, we’d kinked, we’d fucked. We’d been out into the world and socialled and were just nipping back to theirs for an hour or so before I needed to get my coach home.
“That knife!” H exclaimed, leaping from the sofa.
“My house mate won’t let knives in the public areas” They said, pointedly looking at housemate.
“Okay then, I’ll follow you.” I grinned and followed them upstairs.
In their room they rustled about under the bed and withdrew what would only have looked more like a serial killer’s weapon of it was caked in dried blood.
What does it say about me that I was immediately turned on?
The blade was wide, deep and patinaed, dark and light silvers showed it’s wear. The handle was bleached, cracked wood, all in all it was a knife that had seen plenty of action.
H held it to my throat. I could feel the weight, I was more aware of that than any sharpness. They moved it over my body then surprised me by slapping the flat side on my thigh through my jeans.
It thumped. It reverberated. It was heavy and ungiving and goooooooood.
H hit me a few more times with the flat and the back of the blade alternating between that and running the edge along my flesh at my throat and in lifting my top, over my stomach and breasts.
I was enjoying the juxtaposition of fear and arousal. The weight, the blade, the determined and sadistic look in H’s eye all had me scared and turned on all at once.
Then they turned the blade and pressed the top corner, the blunt tip of the wide blade, into the pressure point at the centre of my chest.
Paingasm. Heightened by fear. Yes, I’m scared of what H can do with one finger but that amplifies a bit when a fuck off weapon is involved!
H laid back on their bed, their sadistic smile dancing on their lips and in their eyes. Lazily they spun and shifted the cleaver in their hand.
I stood frozen for a while. Part of me wanted to collapse on the bed beside them, As I normally would but the knife in their hand and the glint in their eye made me hesitate. Should I wait for permission? What were they planning? If I lay down what would they do to me?
As H continued to smile at me, I made my mind up and my body eventually followed suit. I climbed onto the bed, over my H and leant in for a kiss. They let me have my kiss (not always a given, they’re THAT mean) but then the cleaver was against my chest and much like my response to H’s beastly growl my instinct was to roll over, show my belly and surrender.
Which I did.
And the cleaver followed. H held it to my throat as we looked into each other’s eyes. I was so turned on, so scared and so overwhelmed with love all at once. I love looking into their eyes and seeing lust reflected there.
I have loved that, from that first night we kissed, and I imagine I always will.
They lifted my top up to reveal my breasts and belly. I loved the way their gaze devoured me. What I loved even more was the slap of the cleaver on my breasts. Cold and heavy the pain created was stingingly deep. I gasped and panted, moaned and squeaked.
At one point I automatically curled up—a way I use to protect myself—but it wasn’t a clever move because when I opened my eyes, the cleaver was an inch away from my throat. I froze in fear. Glanced at H, who was looking at me and their blade. I knew then that they were in control.
I was still scared, but I was reassured that I was in good hands.
Then that God damn heel of that God damn blade ended up pressed behind my ear and I whined my dissatisfaction. It hurt and I couldn’t move I couldn’t do anything at all because there was a fucking cleaver next to my head.
Literally, as they dug the back into the spot on the side of my head which is, I think, my most hated pressure point. Although H didn’t out and out laugh, there was definitely an amused Heh in response to my disgruntled whining and pouting.
Once again they returned to beating my boobs. I was more comfortable with that pain and when they pressed the corner of the back of the blade between my breasts and into my chest pressure point I was ecstatic.
And they beat my boobs again before once more making me come from just the pressure of their cleaver between my tits. I come from that pressure anyway, but there was an extra thrill as I convulsed against such a scary, intimidating weapon.
My stomach caught H’s attention. They do love to lavish it with love. So they hit it with the cleaver.
Of course they did.
I groaned. Little did I know it was going to get more torturous.
“anti.est.ab.lish.ment.ar.ian.ism,” They said, slowly, syllable by syllable. On each syllable they hit my stomach.
“Is a very long word. Spell it.” I chuckled, as they paused their hitting. It was immediately what came to mind as it’s a joke my Dad used to say a lot. Hoping people would try to spell the word but actually it’s just I. T. It. So droll.
There were other long words, which I don’t remember. The pain was building as H hit precisely the same spot as they said long words slowly and pointedly.
“Con.tra.dic.tar.ian.” They said, hitting in rhythm.
“Oh,” I said, before I thought, “That’s a really good word for you.”
They paused the cleaver in mid-air and shot me a look that chilled me to my soul.
“Oh, Shit.” I laughed. It was a nervous laugh though. As I realised I just insulted the sadistic sweetie who had a fucking meat cleaver in their hand.
“dis.re.spect.ful.” each syllable was accompanied with a slap of the cleaver on my already very red and sensitive flesh.
“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. I hate feeling like I’ve upset someone.
“I’m very sorry!” I’m sure the panic was evident in my voice at this point. I was struggling to process the pain and also a little worried I’d upset them with my cheek.
I stopped apologising. Our gazes met again and I could see the amusement in their eyes, so I stopped worrying about my silly mouth and concentrated on worrying about the cleaver in their hand.
“How are you enjoying being beaten syllabically?”
I made a noise. I’m not sure what that noise was or meant but it was a noise.
“Pardon?” They slapped my belly once more. Which was mean because I wasn’t able to speak anyway and them hitting me didn’t make it any easier to remember words and how to use them.
“Yes!” I yelped, wanting to say something anything before they hit me again. “Enjoy. I er…”
H grinned and concentrated on my stomach once again.
“Bi. Vis. a. bil.ity.”
They continued, again I forgot the words they said as I struggled to take the pain. my stomach hurt. A lot.
Each new slap was exquisite torture.
And then they stopped.
I watched them, that contented, sadistic smile spread across their face, through their eyes. They were inspecting the mark where the cleaver had been impacting. They were so intently focused. I glowed with pride.
Then they moved their hand quickly to pinch the skin they’d marked.
I gasped, my eyes went wide, my heart thudded quickly. I reached out to stop them. I couldn’t take any more pain. However, I didn’t grab them. But I took more pain, as they ran their fingers over the area but they didn’t pinch it.
But I could see they were entertained by the real, visceral fear in my eyes.
The bruise grew and darkened. It seemed to hurt more and more. When I pulled my jeans back into position, when the seatbelt dug in on the coach ride home, whenever I bent forward or sidewards or really when I moved my middle at all.
My cleaver bruise was spectacular, beautiful and brutal, just like the human who gave it to me.
I loved my bruise, and I love my brutal torturer. I look forward to meating (see what I did there?) their cleaver again soon.