No candles or altar, just the buff carpet under foot and the grey slab of the bed. That was soft, not the carved stone her imagination summoned, but there were strong straps to hold him fast, so that would serve. In her hand, she had a knife, but it was shielded in plastic and not meant for his skin, a tiny, wicked edge snap off sharp for slitting boxes.
He was dressed for her, magnificently, the buttons of his suit open so the lapels of his jacket lay splayed. His tie was only a little crooked, pulled that way by her hand, earlier. Her feet felt the tilt of her heels, toes adjusting in tall stockings. She had dressed for herself, though for what she was to do, perhaps instead she needed silk or flax or wool in white and unstitched, or maybe a robe, draping her with ominous authority. She was instead, in garters over panties, a longline bra, all a black mesh.
Looking at him, he was denied the opportunity to do the same to her, by an eyeless, red satin mask, stuffed full of little beads so its weight made a seal that blocked most light. She considered that he was also dressed for himself, the pride he had in his clothing. Suits tailored to fit, picked from floor models and matched with fabrics hung on racks in dark tones and the occasional grey or clean white. If she took his jacket off, she would find a half dozen little touches of quality, symptom of wealth.
Inside, she remembered, in those lapels, as well as a hidden pocket, little red hand finishing stitches. Running her fingers over those had been deeply intimate. What was it of masculinity, to put your colour only on the inside or in safe places, the glance of ankle, demure restraint of a pocket square or a scant slash of a tie? It was just another hint of the immense vulnerability she saw in the so-called opposite sex. She wanted sacrilege and a sacrifice. She wanted to tear all that away.
Her hand on his chest told her that there were more layers beneath the buttoned shirt. They had played these games long enough she had guesses at what: lace, straps, mesh. He loved that opportunity to peacock, no shame in what was most close to his skin. Soon it would be exposed.
While he was still blind, she kissed him, her hands moving to press on his pulled apart arms, poking at his helplessness. Thus, then, a clean kiss under his control and sliding off the blindfold, leaving it discarded next to his head. She had his full attention. How could she not, straddling his body, rubbing against him even as he pushed back towards her, against the limits the cuffs on his wrists and ankles permitted.
To play was not to take on a mask, but to take it off. It was a cold-water dive, exhilarating, her sadism popping out to satiate itself. She smiled and found her true desire. “Last chance to beg off.”
He couldn’t, she knew that. She watched him, hawk like, always, when they played, checking for those tells of the edge of where he could go. He didn’t mean to be dishonest to his capacity, muffled by the real desire to give her everything. Still, she trusted him, for the same cruel instinct obliterated much of the barriers between them. She could read fine from not fine perfectly well, overriding even this to hold to his limit.
He was troubled, but not unwilling. It wasn’t actually the last chance, but she was reassuring herself of her power, girding herself before her hands grasped at his collar and yanked hard.
Some buttons popped, some loosened at the sudden wrenching tugged and opened to the waist, his shirt. That was fixable, so far. White t-shirt gaped underneath, soft and flowing over hints of straps. She smiled at her own audacity. It was unclear if this was a transgression against him or her own frugality. Hurting his flesh was easier.
The shirt cost more than she made in an hour, the suit a quarterly bonus for him. The fly of his pants, wrapped around to a button on one side, was soon popped and pulled, the first hint of mesh. Despite the carnage, despite holding no place in his own fetishes, he was still faithfully hard for her.
She would never bruise his pretty face, but here she was doing something that felt just as forbidden. The knife in her hand was comfortable, enticing her towards the next step.
“Hold still,” she warned, thumbing out a blade barely the length of her thumbnail. Cutting was a two-hand job, one to hold the fabric taut, one to stroke it through the fibres.
Split fabric made a beautiful noise. With his body bound there was no way she could fully undress him any other way. But everything he was and owned was hers to use or discard as she wished. She loved good wool, loved to run her hands over the smoothness of his jackets hanging in their closet or feel the weight of it in her hands. And yet the hardest part of its mutilation was an act of will.
Further, it was not an orgy of slashing and stabbing. Every cut, still straddling the warmth of him, was careful, planned. “Measure twice, cut once.”
His face had fear at the blade. She kept her attention on that too, even as ribbons of what was once the work of hours by a tailor were casually tossed away. Revealed, bit by bit, a few threads still littering the bed beneath them, she admired.
Straps, crisscrossing, mesh framing his cock, giving other textures to contrast his naked velvet-and-butter. Beneath the suit he’d dressed as much to be admired, lingerie cut for his body. It was a piece she’d picked out for him, saved her own money to afford it.
Their eyes met and she caught that moment of mutual understanding, her power over him giving them that wonderful connection where she saw his pride in being considered, wanted and consumed. They kissed, again, and then she hooked her thumb into one of the black bands of the body suit, considering: should she cut this free too?
Yikes! Can you believe this story has been sitting unwritten, because I psyched myself out, for the last 8 months? At some point this year I convinced myself all my writing was terrible and crawled into a shame spiral hole. But, here you are, and hopefully you enjoy it as much as int inspired me. <3