Box Cutters Gloves. That’s new. She was sure the surprise was coagulating on her face, a l

Box Cutters Gloves. That’s new. She was sure the surprise was coagulating on her face, a look of excitement turning into one closer to fear. He didn’t wear gloves. He rarely wore anything. Just him and her, and whatever clothes he’d decided to dress her in that night. She couldn’t help but squirm, which meant he couldn’t help but smirk. The leather jacket was a new touch too. He walked towards her, which means she walked backward, away from him. The sadist’s tango, writ large on his face. There wasn’t enough floor, the few feet of it quickly exhausted before she fell back onto the bed, the abrupt interruption of the mattress against the backs of her knees leaving her little other option. Now she was looking up at him. Now he was looking down at her.  One of his hands was in his pocket, playing with something. She narrowed her eyes, bit her lip, and her hands clutched at the sheets as if they were going to provide some sort of anchor, an escape from that which she was increasingly wanting no such freedom from. But that was her role to play; the frightened girl, the victim, the assaulted. The way she squirmed made her performance less than convincing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.  It was a knife, she could see that now. Nothing flashy, no glitz or glamour to it. Just a slightly rounded length of steel, housing a sharp blade. A Stanley Knife, a box cutter. A tool, then, not a weapon. Didn’t help things. His hand held it with a lazy ease, and he slipped onto the bed, one knee after the other, before glancing down at her. “Stay still.” It was said with an air of amusement that worried her more than a deadpan delivery would have approached. He brought his left hand up, placing it against her face, and she shivered at the cool touch of the leather against her face. It gripped her suddenly, the strength of his fingertips translated through the material with little difficulty, and she was held still, regardless of whether she’d follow his order or not. And then there was the knife, hovering above her cheek. Her entire world distilled down into that one patch of flesh, right below her eye, and she squirmed. But it felt like it was that cheek that squirmed, that direct inch of skin that was under threat. Her eyes flicked from the blade, slightly out of focus, back up to him, and the look of intense concentration on his face. He was as he always was, only more so, brought into sharper relief by the extremity of his actions. “Why..?” She murmured, her voice a broken, hoarse thing, her mouth dry and strained. For a moment, she saw the warmth shine through his eyes, through the dominance, the sadism, the torturer and the tormentor. She saw the man he was outside of these four walls, and there was the flicker of a smile on his face, before it faded back into that stare. The knife grazed her skin, and it sent shivers down her spine. He moved it slowly, too slowly to be a threat, but that didn’t make the discomfort that was wrapped around the back of her neck diminish in any way. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Because…” He started, his voice slow, deliberate. “If I was to take this glove, and place it between your legs, it would come back glistening.” The knife came back for another round, and he threaded it carefully through the air, as if weaving an invisible tapestry. “Because..” He continued, his voice almost melodic. “If I were to ask you, in twenty minutes, or an hour, how you feel…” He smiled now, a genuine thing, beautiful. “You wouldn’t know what to say. You’d slouch against the wall, perhaps, or just hug me. But you’d be smiling the biggest smile.” Again he brought the blade close to her, coming within half an inch of her eye. “Because..” He took the knife away, if only for a moment. “You want this.” -- source link

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