This is not properly a story, but rather a remembering prompted by a C/P
series called Wolfsong, by Speedo's "Wolfsong". Fact or fiction? Memory is slippery
stuff. I'll let the piece speak for itself, though I warn you that from the
first line it doesn't say anything nice.
He has chosen this moment to open my skin. The blade of my knife is not
sharp, and he must press down hard to do this. I am face down, unbound, and
even though he cannot see my expression I am proud that I do not flinch. If
he thinks for a moment that I may not want this, he will stop.
It is my knife he uses. The blade is serviceable for cutting twine and boxes,
for peeling back insulation from wires, for slicing through tarp, and for
paring my nails. I carry it with me always, for both practical and
sentimental reasons.
He has taught me to love the knife. He has dipped the blade into ice to draw
cold landscapes across my body. He has heated it in flame to sculpt my flesh
with burns. He has trailed the point lightly across every inch of me to
write the story of my desire.
He knows me, knows every need I ever had, and a few that he created. He
fills them all. There are times I sense reluctance in him. Then I know to
take my knife back. The trick is to know whether to put it away, or to
demonstrate my appreciation in steel on his spine.
I can tell that after this he will need me to fold the blade. After so many
nights of a duel of wills disguised as play, this is first blood. The blade
tears a few more centimeters before he stops, scrapes the edge across the
wound, and reaches around to offer me red smears to lick clean. He is
marking me as his, which he knows I want, but which may be more than he
wants.
He usually enjoys this, but not always. He often prefers me astride him, my
hand between us stroking myself (because he doesn't do it right). My every
other move then is aimed at pleasing him. I give to him gently then what at
other times I plead for him to take from me. But not tonight. Tonight he
will hurt me beautifully.
Fifteen years later I will remember all of this, and ache with the memory in
my heart, my groin, and my back. My back by then will have grown strong from
the years spent working beside him for long, difficult days. He will have
shaped me, body and soul.
That will be fifteen years from now. A moment ago he opened my skin, and now
he licks across the cut and leans in to kiss me, binding us with the taste
of my blood on each other's tongue.