She almost cries

I can conceive, in my heart of hearts, a moment where my slave so desires to give me everything that she needs me to take her life.

I can feel my vision pull away, until I can’t even see her, I can only know her bowed head, sense her eyes, blindfolded, still seeing me. She is not pleading, not crying out, not speaking, but her skin whispers to me, her slow, deep breathing is a language of urgency. The connection between she and I is pitiless, clear and certain and distant and, at the same time, part of our flesh. Her sweat is on my body and in my bloodstream and her neck fits perfectly into my hands.

My hands are all of me, and they are gentle and unstoppable and harder than stone and they are taking the life from her. And she is not screaming and her body ebbs as if into sleep, jerking once, ebbing, already becoming stiff, yet it seems her whole skin is surrounding me, she is holding me, she is needing me.

And it is just the ridge of my hand, the webbing of flesh between my first finger and thumb tight and taut against her throat and my hands are closing and as she goes unconscious in my hands she knows that I am going to finish it.

And when she wakes,

she almost cries—

because I did not.


At the time of this writing, I’ve used six methods of denying my partners speech.

I’ve used a thorough gag once or twice. My partners are often very eloquent in their speech, and it has pleased me to silence it, in an ugly manner, with brute force.

I’ve gagged some with their undergarments, in games of sex and humiliation.

I’ve used the words, “Be silent”. And that obedience is sweet.

I’ve used my hand, and the force of my body. And that violence is sweet.

And, sometimes, I’ve used no implement, no obstruction, no command. I’ve taken them to a place, inside, where they have no more words.

And that is best of all.

Knife and eye

When I held the knife, a few hairs from her pupil, I know she wanted to tremble, but she couldn’t; she was locked in place. All she could see was the knife, and all she could do was hold her eyes on the knife…

Hands can do so many more horrible things than knives. At least, under the right circumstances, my hand does. And my partner knew it well, that night.

But the knife locked her in place.

Why? My balance is good, my arms are trained; there was less chance that the knife would slip than there was, say, that she’d be hit by one of the town’s many reckless drivers, later on that night. We had negotiated no blood. She certainly had to know that, pushing limits or not, her eye was safe. The knife was an empty threat.

But it wasn’t an empty threat. Because at that moment, she was mine.

And there was no place where her mind could go to remember her safety. She was in too deep. She told me, later, the knife had filled up her world, and all she could do was know its nature. And her nature.

Knives cut. Knives draw blood. Knives kill. Knives maim.

And she was helpless. Her body was bound. She knew I was stronger and faster than she, could cover her mouth with my hand. She knew I could punish her harshly, and she knew I would do so, if given reason.

But the undercurrent, the throbbing knowledge behind her physical helplessness was this:

She knew she would take it.

She knew she would thank me for it.

And she would kiss me. And she would want to give more of herself to me. And she would come back.

She had no choice.

She knew she was mine.

A measurement

Trust is not how close I can bring the knife to your eye.

Trust is the part of you that believes I might not stop the knife… and, because of that belief, wants more than ever to be mine.