I knew I wanted to write something about knife play this week, but today it was too hot to fuck – or indeed to think about fucking. But is it ever too hot for a mind fuck from a cruel dominant? What I wanted was a mean girl who would grin sadistically as she held my wrists against cold stone until I shivered, and whose pocket-knife would feel cool against my skin…
It’s too hot. Even in a vest-top and almost indecent shorts, sweat pools from every pore of your skin when you step outside. It’s far too hot to even think about fucking – so of course it makes sense that she texts you. She takes delight in your discomfort; she gets off on making you squirm.
She’s waiting for you, and you resent how cool and calm she looks despite the merciless heat. She holds out her hand, but when you reach out to hold it she takes you by the wrist. An act of dominance that will go unnoticed by the people around you, but makes you feel small. She’s so very good at making you feel small.
You breath a sigh of relief when you both step out of the sun and into the cool shade of a narrow alley. Even though you’re only a few feet from the bustle and sunshine of a busy street filled with tourists, it feels like you’ve entered a secret pocket of stillness. Never one to waste time, she is on you the next second, kissing you fiercely as she backs you into the alley wall. The stone behind you is cold and her mouth is warm. Her kisses sate you like nothing else can, but when she pulls away her grin is sadistic and something inside you twists in fear even as your cunt thumps with arousal.
“Are you hot for me, slut?” she asks, but quickly bites your lip so your nod becomes a stifled moan. Her hands are at your waist, and while exchanging messy, make-out kisses she tugs your vest top up a few inches. She simultaneously pushes her thigh between your legs, which not only lets you grind down on it but forces your back flush against the wall.
You cry out, and she giggles. As always, she is unrelenting, and pushes you against the wall again. After so long in the sunshine, the wall of the dark alleyway is almost painful against your hot skin. She keeps kissing you, unzipping your shorts and tugging them down too. She grins into the kisses, amused at your attempts to get away from the cold stone.
Now biting your neck hard – there’ll be bruises there tomorrow, part of you faintly recognises – she firmly takes your hands and pulls them above your head. Your wrists too are pushed against the cruelly cold stone. You wriggle in protest – it’s really fucking hurts – and try to break her grip on your wrists. Suddenly one hand is holding both of yours above your head, and there’s a knife against your throat.
It is the flat of the blade, but it’s no less scary. It serves as a reminder of who is in charge, just as it did during that first fuck when she cut your underwear off you so she could taste and tease and fuck every part of your body. Grinning wickedly at your surprise now, she takes the tiny mole on your neck – the one she knows you hate being played with – ever so gently between her teeth. You exhale with a shaky breath.
You know she won’t cut you with the knife, but that doesn’t make it less scary. Your tongue toys with my safe-word, but your cunt informs you – in no uncertain terms – that this is achingly hot. And it is: the cold metal of the knife against your throat makes your cunt even hungrier. You whimper, barely daring to breathe, as she hooks your knickers to the side. They are nearly translucent in your wetness, and you know she will have made a note of that to mock you about later. For now, though:
“Go on. Fuck yourself on me, slut.”
She doesn’t move her fingers, making me fuck your on them. Even without the knife it would have been humiliating, and you blush as sweat trickles down your cheek. With the knife unmoving against your throat, you’re aware of every single movement, including the unsteady rhythm of her fingers thrusting into your cunt as you force yourself to slowly move up and down. Her fingers inside you feel good, but her twisted smile makes it better.
She keeps you like that until she’s had her fill, and you don’t hesitate when she pushes you to your knees. The ground beneath your knees rough as well as cold, but you ignore the discomfort as she lifts her skirt. Her bare cunt needs no explanation nor instructions. As you begin to work, you hear the knife click shut – she knows that a hand twisted in your hair is all it will take to ensure my obedience now.
Kink of the Week is run by the wonderful Molly Moore, and you should click the kiss to see who else is getting their kink on this week.
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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.