Sexuality Happens

So this is an erotic story that stems from a variety of dreams I have been having. Anyways, I can’t decide if I should be nervous about having dreams like this, or just take them as they are (incredibly hot!) and leave it as that. So enjoy the erotica. Fair warning; there is knife play, breath play, and fisting. If that’s not your cuppa, I’d stop reading now :)
-Essin’ Em

I wake up, and his hand is around my throat. Opening my eyes wide, I look into his, those depthless pools of blue, and see him staring back at me. I open my mouth, about to say something, and he holds one finger up to his lips, silently shaking his head, telling me, without a word, that I better keep quiet.

Then I see him reach into his pocket. I know what that means, but I still feel my breath catch in my chest when I see that glint of metal as he pulls out his knife. I cannot even find words to describe how that knife makes me feel. One look at it, even just a mention of it, and my eyes begin to glaze over, pulling me from the real world. The feeling of sharp, cold metal against the skin is something that never has been and never will be duplicated.

As he flicks it open, I realize that not only had I better keep quiet, but that I’d also better not move. Thankfully, I know he’s steady with his knife, but I’d also prefer for there not to be any accidents. Suddenly, my thoughts stop processing as he lowers the blade towards me, and leans into the pillow.

He tells me to hold still, in that soft, controlling voice of his. Subconsciously, I tighten every muscle, and will myself not to move as he slides the tip of the blade under my satin negligee. Pulling the tip through the fabric, he slowly cuts it off me, his skin brushing against mine as it glides through my cleavage, and continues to rip the cool fabric off of me. I feel exposed, but safe. His hand his still on my throat, with very little pressure, but I know it’s there. How could I forget something like that?

Using the tip of the blade to push aside the ruined garment, he looks at me and says “I hope you didn’t want that.” God, even something so mundane, and my cunt contracts. There is no response to that. Firstly, I have no choice in the matter. Secondly, even if I had wanted it, what kind of person would choose some flimsy lingerie over the feel of steel against their skin?

He straddles my now naked body, a knee on either side of my hip, towering over me. A fleeting thought goes tearing through my head; why is he dressed, and I’m completely naked? As soon as it enters, it leaves, because he has taken his hand from my throat, and I miss it immensely. I moan in disappointment, and he smiles at this. He tells me there will be time for that later.

The knife glints in front of my eyes; my clit throbs.

I’m not sure how I feel about my reaction to that knife. It seems like the antithesis of what I should want. Aren’t women supposed to want love, vanilla scented candles, and sheets of burgundy satin as their lovers go down on them for hours? And aren’t humans supposed to try and avoid knives, and other sharp objects that will hurt them? While I won’t say no to having someone between my legs for hours on end, I have no inclination for rose petals and flickering flames, unless the flame is attached to a candle about to pour wax on me. And the knife? I have no survival instinct; I want it touching every part of my body, over and over again. Perverse as it may sound, I want that knife to make love to my body, to touch me the way a romance novel heroine wants her lover’s lips to trace her skin.

He shakes me from my pondering as the knife, his knife, touches my skin. Tracing my color bone, I shiver at the sensations the blade sends rampaging through my body. For a second, I close my eyes, and just take in everything, as he traces the pointed tip across my chest, outlining each breast, and working his ways towards my nipples. I think I may have sighed in contentment.

Suddenly, my eyes fly open as he slaps me, albeit rather lightly, across the face, and then grabs my chin. “Don’t you go anywhere; I want you here with me. I want to see you feel it. Look at me, understand?” Eyes wide, I nod my head as much as I dare, closing them only to take another two slaps. The knife returns to my skin, and I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding in.

He traces it down my sternum, my body shudders, and it takes every ounce of strength in my body not to buck up into that knife. Seeing the effect it is having on me, he pushes the blade slightly deeper, stopping before he penetrates my skin, but enough for it to leave a pinkish, almost red trail in its wake. I gasp softly at the newer pressure, but as my body adjusts, this too is heaven.

He carefully backs up, just slightly, providing him more access to my hips and thighs. We both have this thing about inner thighs; they’re so excellent for biting, scratching, and at the moment, they’re ideal to run a knife down. But he’s not there yet. He’s tracing the blade over my hips, embracing every curve. It’s as though the steel is just an extension of him. Finally, he drags it over the tops of my thighs, and then towards the center. I can’t help it, I thrust my pelvis toward him, just a little, clit throbbing, cunt dripping, needing him to touch me.

I gasp in pain. It’s my own damn fault. My sudden movement has caused the tip of the blade to pierce me momentarily. It stings, but in a good way. He watches me, smiling, waiting until my breathing returns to normal, or at least normal for a sex-crazed woman. Then he continues his path, moving his knife over my body, touching me in ways more intimate than any “lover” I’d had before.

With a flick to close it, he shoves it back into his pocket. Again, I let a sigh of disappointment escape my lips. Within seconds, I’m screaming. He is biting me on the breast, hard. I don’t know how the fuck he does it; he bites me, and I see these flashes of white, and I feel like he MUST be tearing through skin, that I must be gushing blood, that I’m going to die. And then it stops. And he hasn’t broken the skin, and there is a perfectly round circle where his mouth was.

He moves up my body again, threads his fingers in my hair, and pulls me up to kiss me. Taking my lower lip between his teeth, he bites down. I can’t move away, as his hand is entwined in my hair, so I just kiss back, as hard as I can, and reach up, running my nails along the skin on his back which isn’t covered by his black ribbed tank. He releases me, and I make to remove the item that is keeping me from the skin to skin contact that I crave. I pause, looking at him, making sure to get his permission, and when he nods in assent, I pull it over his head, revealing his bound chest. I leave that alone, and wrap my arms around him, pulling him close to me. He allows this for a moment, but then his fingers are back in my hair, pulling me off him, and dragging my head back to expose my neck. Quickly, he places his mouth there, nibbling, slightly biting. Then he extracts his hand from my hair, throws me back on the bed, moving to my side.

Slowly, he walks his finger up my stomach, pauses to pinch my nipples for a moment, and then continues his hand’s ascent. Eventually, he reaches my neck, but as much as he knows that I want his hand there, he just lightly runs his fingers over my skin. With his other hand, he begins to lightly stroke my inner thighs, and then slaps my legs open. Creeping his fingers up into me, I thrust forward, trying to get him to place just one of them inside me, to no avail. And then he stops touching me, with both hands. He’s doing something by my hips, but I can’t see what, as his body is in the way. I groan in frustration, and toss my head on the pillow, so I won’t see him. It’s childish, yes, but I’m so turned on, and know better than to contemplate touching myself without being directed.

Without warning, two of his fingers slam into me. At the same time, his other hand returns to my throat, pressing into it, so just as I gasp out for air, I can’t get any. After a moment or two, he lets up. I can feel his two lubed up fingers inside me, my cunt walls clamping down on them, his thumb making these continuous circles on my clit that keeping from thinking any possibly coherent thoughts. His fingers start working in and out of me, and I move my hips to their rhythm.

Every now and then, he shoves them all the way into me, and at the same time, presses his hand more firmly on my throat. When he does this, my hips break their rhythm, pausing for a second, and then squirming to try and get away, not that I really want to. Just as quickly, he lets up, and is back to fucking me.

He slides a third finger into me, and the process continues, but with no pattern I can find. I try counting the number of thrusts before the deep one, but am at a loss at the randomness. So I give up counting, and focus on the sensations, and looking into those crazy blue eyes. One year ago, I never thought I’d be letting people play with knives on my body, or put their hands on my throat, and here I was, dirty girl that I was, not only letting him do it to me, but dripping wet and incredibly turned on because of it.

His thumb is killing me. Killing me. It is relentless, and I ask to come. Without saying a word, he just shakes his head, and I blow out air in exasperation…right before he cuts of my air again, cutting off my oxygen flow as he slams four of his fingers into my cunt, which stretches to accommodate him.

I’m making these noises – I don’t even know how to describe them. They’re primal, somewhere between a moan and grunt, and I’m bucking my hips up into him. I’d be writhing a lot more, but his hand on my throat kind of prevented it. His thumb just keeps going, and I kept moaning, and finally, he looks at me, and in that voice of his, says “come now.”

Even if I hadn’t been on the edge, I would have. You just don’t disobey a direct command like that unless you feel your ass is a bit too unmarked. So I came. Loudly. Riding his hand for a little, and it feels amazing. And then I was done, but he was still holding me down, and still going, and I couldn’t get away. He says “look at me,” and as I do, he removes his hand from my throat, and moves down the bed. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his entire hand into my cunt.

I can’t handle the sensation, and I come and scream at the same time.

As I come down from the waves of that climax, I look down at him to see if he’s angry at me for not asking permission. I don’t think he is; he just looks at me smiling, hand frozen inside of me. As I become a little more oriented, he starts to slowly move inside me, and moan as I feel every tiny movement that he makes. With his free hand, he is stroking my inner thighs, softly at first, and then more and more roughly. One pass draws a hint of blood to the surface, and I see a change in his face. He’s no longer with me one hundred perfect; this animalistic, predatory look crosses his features.

I know kind of how he must feel; I’m sure I look different when I see that steel catching the light in front of me. However, he’s stopped moving his hand, and I have one more orgasm waiting for him, so I gently move, pressing myself further onto him, bringing him back. He looks up, and into my eyes, and all I say is “please.”
He moves his hand again, taking his free hand to being to rub my clit again. In only a few minutes, I’m perched on the edge of climax again, and as we lock eyes, he nods, and I come again, screaming, moaning, panting. It takes me more than a minute or two to make it back to the present.

Ever so slowly, ever so carefully, he removes his hand from me, gently sliding it out of my already sore cunt. Unceremoniously, he moves the latex glove from his hand, hops of the bed to drop it in the trash. He returns to the bed, crawling up and lies down behind me, pressing into me. His stomach is against my back as he slings an arm over me, holding me. I turn my head, to look into his eyes, and whisper “thank you.”

The only response I get is a pinch on my nipple, and a small bite on my shoulder.