Sadism The pain was sharp, almost citrus. It brought the garden into crisp relief, the sun breaking

Sadism The pain was sharp, almost citrus. It brought the garden into crisp relief, the sun breaking through the clouds, the damp of the dew underneath her dress seeping through. She curled onto her side, and reached down, fingertips slipping over the skin of her calf. She brought them back up to her face. Crimson.  He had been on the veranda, reading the morning paper. He had been drinking his coffee, occasional sips between editorials and film reviews, and perhaps the odd bite of toast. She’d been trying out new heels, and he’d made her wear them. The ground was still soft, and she’d tripped. And now she was bleeding.  She looked down. It was almost pretty, a series of fine scrapes in a ladder down the side of her leg, an accidental style becoming quickly obscured as it grew more red. Her lip was caught between her teeth, and she gasped, questing her hand back down there once more, just to see if it was as painful as it felt. Fingertips brushed against it again, and she gasped. He looked up, one eyebrow arching upwards before he carefully folded his paper and stood. Shirt still mostly unbuttoned; work wasn’t for another hour and a half. He wandered over, stared down at her. “You poor thing, Princess.” He murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly, as if he was just making an observation. She looked up at him, a dark silhouette against the morning sun, all but obscured. Crouching down, he ran a palm down her leg, getting close to the graze. “I fell.” A statement that didn’t need to be said. But she wanted her voice to accompany his, just let the sounds coexist together for a moment. It made her feel proactive, like she wasn’t just some patient on a doctor’s table, waiting for his assessment. But he didn’t give one. His hand just traveled down a little further, until the edge of his finger brushed up against the first bead of blood on her leg. It broke, spilling over his skin and dwelling in the slight wrinkles of his knuckle. His hand moved quickly, suddenly, and his fingertips started to press down on the deepest cuts. She gasped again, started to squirm away, but his other hand was at her neck, thumb against her windpipe. It calmed her as much as it made her still, and he proceeded to slowly trace each of the cuts, pressing down on each. A slow pressure, consistent, the pain intensifying with each before he let go and it diminished down into a dull throb.  The whole time, she didn’t stop looking at him. And the only time he left her gaze was to stare at what his finger was doing, make sure he was moving to the right place, put the right pressure down. He was only halfway down the wound when the sensations started to get to her, beginning to warp in her mind to something wholly unique.  Her squirming continued, but it had taken a different tone. She murmured “Please.” But the sound was choked in her throat, against his thumb. He felt the vibration, though, and he smiled. Pausing, he lent down and kissed her. Slowly. Gently. As soft as his finger was not.  Finally, he reached the end, his finger coming away and pressing to his lips. He licked it clean, and then scooped her up, holding her tight against his chest. She clung to him. “Inside. I’ll clean you up, find you a plaster.” She just nodded. -- source link

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