By Lisabet Sarai
He has threatened to tattoo "Kinky Slut" across my breast - over my heart, he vows, where it will be visible to everyone unless I keep my top button fastened. His teasing keeps me off balance, aroused and unsure, caught between laughter and dread "You're mine!" he sometimes yells as he pounds me from behind. "I'm going to carve my name into your ass!"
This isn't like that at all.
He has not spoken for the past twenty minutes. As he wraps my wrists and ankles with soft nylon rope, successive loops artistically aligned, all I hear is his even breathing and the Tangerine Dream CD he's put in the player. Sandalwood-scented candles create dancing shadows in the corners. There's an answering flicker in his velvet-brown eyes as he finishes the final knots and scans my face to make sure the bonds are not too tight. Is it passion? Fear? A hint of danger, that perverse curiosity that makes him push me beyond what we both thought were my limits?
I nod, not wanting to shatter the expectant hush, scarcely believing what we are about to do. I'm immobilized in the straight backed dining room chair, legs lashed to legs, arms behind the back and roped to the rungs. My thighs are spread, of course; the cushion beneath me is already sodden.
"Shall I get a blindfold?" he asks, his rich voice startling after the long interval of quiet.
I shake my head. "I want to watch," I whisper. "Please."
His mocking grin breaks the mood of sombre concentration. "Pervert," he names me, with obvious affection, and plants a kiss on my damp forehead. "Wait, then. I'll be back soon."
He leaves me sitting there, cocooned in the glow. The music winds through my head, haunting and other-worldly. An unearthly calm settles on my spirit. Yet at the same time my heart is hammering against my ribs and my cunt feels sloppy and hungry. I think I am ready.
It seems to take him a long time to gather his equipment. I shiver, then inhale deeply, working to slow my pulse as he's taught me. The recording comes to a close and silence draws in around me. Relax, I tell myself. Breathe. Open.
When he returns, he's as naked as I, his hard cock arrowing toward the ceiling. I gush at the sight. He ignores his own arousal, all business now, setting a rolled up towel on the table beside me and unfolding it to reveal several scalpels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze and other first aid supplies. He draws a pair of gloves over his big hands. The snap of the latex around his wrists sends a queasy ripple through my stomach.
I can still back out. I don't say a word, though. I will myself to breathe as he rotates my chair so that the back is to the table, then seats himself beside me, at right angles. Drenching a square of gauze in alcohol, he uses it to thoroughly swab my left shoulder. The pure white fabric makes my fair skin look tanned. It leaves a chill, goose-bumped trail in its wake. My nipples peak as though he'd disinfected them as well.
Now he pours more alcohol into a saucer. He swishes a scalpel back and forth in the antiseptic. I can't look away. He brings his steady hand to my shoulder. There's a touch, a barely-there imprint of the needle-like point, indenting my skin. His gaze snags mine. Fire rages inside him, I can see, but on the outside he's like ice.
"Mine," he whispers.
He reads my answer in my eyes.
I take a deep breath. He increases the force on the scalpel. The blade slices into my flesh, sending a scarlet shock through my whole body. It's heat more than pain, at least at first. A ruby drop wells from the tiny wound. As I watch, it grows fat and round, surface trembling as the weight increases. Finally it breaks, sending a red rivulet trickling down my arm. Another bead swells from the cut to take it's place.
I almost come from the sight alone.
He presses deeper, stroking out his first initial. The sting turns to an ache as he continues to cut. Before long, my whole shoulder is on fire. I bite my lip, determined to be brave.
By this time my arm is a bloody mess. He pauses to wipe away the excess gore with more alcohol, turning the pain sharper and colder. He's finished with the second initial now. Grasshoppers are vaulting around in my guts, but I can't look away.
"Are you all right, Sarah?" he asks.
I nod, not daring to speak. He returns to his work.
His concentration awes me - not to mention his skill. The letters are perfectly regular, a work of art. It occurs to me that he must have practiced. I'm amazed. I knew he'd researched the process - what sort of implements to use, how to slow the healing and enhance the scarring, how to avoid infection. I should have known he'd leave nothing to chance. That's the sort of master he is.
All at once, tears crowd my eyes and spill over. I'm too full of feelings to hold them back. My tortured flesh throbs as he adds the final touches to his design. My clit pulses and my cunt clenches on emptiness. I want to sink to my knees, kiss his feet, thank him from the bottom of my soul.
He's the one who kneels, though. After he's bandaged the wound and mopped up the remaining blood, he snaps off the gloves and settles between my splayed thighs. I come the instant his tongue lashes across my clit.
While I'm still shuddering in my bonds, he grabs the other scalpel and slices through them. He gathers me to his chest, carries me to the bedroom and buries his cock in my depths. Then he fucks me hard, the way we both love. Even as I climb toward another climax, though, I notice he's careful not to brush against my torn shoulder.
Afterward, he confines me in his arms, as though he fears I'll float away. Indeed, I feel boneless and limp, lighter than thistledown. I can't sleep, though. I still hum with the thrill of our mutual audacity, the wonder of our mutual trust.
We were close before. But now my master and I are bound by blood.