This is my second attempt to participate in Kink of the Week, and I had a lot of fun exploring my thoughts about cutting or tearing clothes by writing this story. The story does explore consensual non-consent in the form of a carefully negotiated scene occurring between two consenting women. Please go and look at all the other utterly fabulous submissions by clicking on the image at the bottom of the post.
I didn’t recognise the woman who was pressing the blunt edge – oh god, please let it be the blunt edge – of a knife against my throat.
My hands were cuffed to the headboard, and I was gripping the bars to stop the metal digging into my wrists. My ankles were attached to the posts of the headboard, so my legs were spread wide. Even though I was still fully clothed, I felt utterly exposed.
All I could focus on was the cold metal against my skin.
“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t move.”
The voice was a low whisper, but the words turned me on. As much as I knew I should be scared, I was aroused. A warm hand moved slowly down the front of my top, pushing away layers to roughly twist at one of my nipples. I let out a low moan, wanting to press up into her touch but held in place by the threat of the knife.
“You’re going to stay still for me, aren’t you pretty thing?” she asked, and I whimpered in response – hardly daring to swallow with the cool blade pressed so close…
Her murmur of good girl made me blush with pleasure. She slid the knife down my throat, and I shivered. The metal felt strangely good against my skin, making me almost painfully aware of my body. Ever nerve was on edge, tense in anticipation. If my knickers weren’t already soaked, they became so when she tugged my shirt up and she cut it open with a swift, precise movement.
I let out another half-moan, stopping when I again felt metal against my throat. The hand holding the knife was steady, and with her other she pushed my shirt off my shoulders. The blade flashed in the light of the single clinically-bright lamp which illuminated me like a patient on an operating table, and with another calculated movement she cut off my bra. This time, with the flat edge of the knife cool against my left shoulder, I moaned as she began to kiss and bite and suck on every inch of my skin she had made available to her.
I don’t know how long I squirmed under her, but just when I had forgotten about the knife she reminded me by dragging it – ever so softly – down my collar bone. She was gentle, but not in a way that implied she cared about me. No, she was an artist and my bared torso was her canvas. I shivered and tried to anticipate what she would do, but the sensations where so new, so different, that all I could do was focus on the patterns the blade made on my skin.
Once I twisted too much – unsure if I was trying to pull away from the sensations or buck into them – and she pushed me down, the knife biting just a little deeper.
“Don’t. Move.” she hissed, and I tried to tell her with my wide, pleading eyes that I would be good. She smiled at me, and when she began circling my nipples with the knife again she was pressing more sharply against my skin.
Soon though, she decided that I wasn’t giving her enough skin to draw on. I held my breath as the knife dipped lower, trying to keep as still as possible while she began to cut away my jeans. The knife running over my skin, her face pressed against my wet knickers when she had torn away the denim at my crotch… I moaned softly. She was so confident, so in control. Her warm hands contrasted with the chill of the metal, and I didn’t know how to process the sensations.
“What did I tell you about moving?” she asked, pushing away the remains of my jeans and smacking my inner thigh.
Then the flat of the knife was pressed against my labia, and I…
“Shit, fucking shit, Einstein. Stop, please, I’ve got cramp.”
Suddenly, it was my girlfriend who was kneeling over me.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. In your legs? Hang on, let me just untie this. Yes, yes, keep swearing at me, that will really help…”
She untied me quickly, while I kept up a slew of affectionate swears. Once my legs had been released and my hands freed, she grabbed a fleece blanket and wrapped it around me. I rubbed my wrists and she massaged my calves, pulling me into her so we were spooning.
After a few minutes of warm comfortable silence, I turned around so I could kiss her.
“I’m sorry that didn’t work out like we planned it,” she said when I pulled away.
“Are you kidding? That was so hot, and you were so fucking sexy. Besides, we can always try again can’t we? If you think you have it in you to surprise me again…”
“Oh, are you saying you think I can’t?” she asked, returning my grin. She rolled on top of me, so I was pinned under her. Her weight was comfortable on top of me, and we stared into each other’s eyes and grinned like the soppy idiots we are.
Cutting through the carefully crafted scene, it was just us lying in bed together.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.