[FM] It lingers. Mm

“You’re sharp, Johnny, almost as sharp as my other little friend. But not quite so obedient.”
-Munson, Gilda

The memory of the night before lingers in my mind. At work, at my desk, trying to fill out boring forms to open an account and scheduling meetings, and I drift into memories from last night. Unable to stay focused on the task at hand.

My breathing is deep, in the same way it was being under his influence then. I have the same sense of overwhelming calmness. And I feel his presence. I message him when it gets to be too much, to thank him. The thing that sticks with me, it’s his intensity and his skill. His overwhelming presence. His control.

It started casually. He mentioned one of his knives from his collection in passing. In doing so, we talked a bit about my first experience with knife play with his girlfriend a few weeks ago. I’m beyond happy that she shared her first experience with me too and that it helped me find something new that brought me so much pleasure. I had always been curious, but it was never a thing I had played with before. But at her first scoring, I was hooked. Well, I guess he wanted to see what he was capable of.

He slips his knife from his jean pocket. His knife, the one that is at his side every day. The one he uses at work to slice boxes open or rip something apart. The one he slowly reaches for if he feels the need to be prepared to protect us if we’re walking about.  The one he uses for just about everything. The one he tends to daily. He snaps the folder open with a flick of his wrist, it’s second nature to him. I hear that familiar click, but this time it’s for me.

Taking the nearest exposed limb available to him, he takes my arm and slowly turns it to expose the more tender side. After a few runs up and down, a poke here and there, a playful jab, and a little moaning, he snaps and says “Your other arm”. I shift and make myself more available, and in grabbing my wrist, he twists it in a way to immobilized me, bending me to his will. He knows what that alone does to me. I’m his. He does the same to that arm, just a little more, and a little less playful and exploratory.

I sit for a moment while we talk a little break,  him still holding the knife and wiping the oils from the steel. My legs crossed. Eyes mostly closed. Arms limp, the backs of my hands resting on my knees, those parts of my arm exposed. Underneath my heavy lids, I can see faint scoring, down my arms, little raised red and white lines. Lines that won’t last to the next day. I don’t know what to expect, but I remain available to him, awaiting his next move. And I hear him fold the knife back.

A moment later, after a moment to come back down, he demands that I turn around, which I do. Eventually… because I am still slipping into that headspace. He helps me lift my dress and expose myself to him. And I here that snap again. Chills.

On my knees and legs spread slightly, he spends time quietly doing his work. Hitting all the expected areas. The innocent ones and all the ones that would make you blush. He’s deft in his movements. Understands pacing. A line starts at the top of my back and slowly drags downwards. When think that I know which way to expect a line to continue, he quickly changes the angle, curving around my lines, picks up the pace. When it turns, the tip digs a little and more of the blade makes contact.  Expertly keeping me on my toes, setting expectations and shattering them within a moment. This goes on… and on… sometimes focusing on one part of my body, sometimes making sure every exposed bit gets his attention.

And all the while, I’m frozen. Intentionally, for safety sake of course, but I also don’t want to move. I am not even capable, nor do I want the ability to move without his direction to do so. My breathing is deep and rhythmic. It’s putting me in a trance. The world around me is dimmed and I only hear him. “You don’t know what I could do to the human body.”, he says coldly as if he was lost in what he was doing. I know him well enough to know what he means by this. It’s not a threat, but from anyone else it would be. It still gave me chills. I do know what he could do. I was gone. I was his. The blade drags up my inner thigh, feeling then sharpest it’s felt yet, up to my most sensitive parts. I’m completely exposed and happily at at his disposal. I’m both thankful and envious that he’s not touching me. The warmth of his hands combined with the sharpness of that point, but both working with the same purpose would have been too much.

With a bit more, I could have soaked him and his sharp little friend. He folds it shut again, a familiar little click. Tells me to turn back around. Again, after a moment when I am able, I turn and sit back down next to him. I’m placid. Pliable. Sated. A state which he seems happy to have achieved. We talk a bit, me still a little off in the distance and under his sway. He tells me how he drew a smiley face and played a game of tic tac toe on my back. He also wrote “mine”on my ass, a thing that I’ll admit does something for me.

At this point, he’s sitting on the floor next to me on the couch. He spreads my legs and snaps it open once more. That sound is beginning to have its own effect on me. One of anticipation. I recline back a bit. He starts again dragging it across that spot that hurts the worst, the top of my inner thigh, “Is it better when you can’t see what’s happening, or when you can watch?”, he gets more than some panting and moaning, now it’s audible aching flowing from me.  I’m always more verbose than he would like, giving him a comparison of the two options he gave, rather than a one word answer. “They’re both about the same”, as I explain that the anticipation of not knowing what to expect is exciting, but even more enthralling is watching his face.

He’s got an arm draped over my thigh holding it in place, and his head is tilted to side resting on his arm. This is the moment that ended me. Seeing him just casually, yet carefully draw little scratches into my flesh. It’s intense, not because he’s “intense”, but because he’s so relaxed and in his element. Watching him tend to me, not making eye contact, had an almost voyeuristic feel to it. I’m feeling everything more, lost in the shared experience. I’m drawn to watching his face, my vision unfocused and fuzzy, but he’s clear. I grow closer and closer to cumming. I beg. Over and over. I plead. I feel wetness dripping down my lips and pooling beneath me…once, twice, and a third and forth time, dripping flows from my cunt. I resist letting it flow and hold back. I don’t usually get that close that I can pull back.  I’m breathing heavier and heavier, my movements less still. He reminds me to not move so much, not letting up and not giving me permission still. I beg more. He finally grants me the permission I need and I am spent.

It clicks shut again. I regain some level of consciousness. We talk a little more, as I come to. I’m quiet and still. At peace. I make the mistake and don’t respond to his question at an audible volume. A quick grip of my arm and dig with his thumb into a pressure point on my arm quickly fixes that problem. Normally, I can’t stand those pokes. I’ll try to wiggle away, beg for him to stop, and complain a bit afterwards. But not this time. I happily accepted what was owed, submitting to the pain he dealt. He pushes again into that same spot, even harder. I whimper, but remain still.  Ensuring my lesson is well learned, he grips my face, and reiterates his expectations. I apologize and promise to do better.

His softness is never far behind his firmness. He touches me gently and holds the side of my face. I lean in and melt into the palm of his hand, a familiar feeling. “You like a little softness with the hard, don’t you?”  I nod, and audibly voice “Yes, Sir.”

So here I am at work. Thinking of him still. I caught myself eyeing the pair of scissors sitting in my pen holder on my desk. I’m feeling a similar sense of calm and peace as the night before. Of being held without being held. I can hear the loud click of his knife being snapped open, and the sound it makes when he swipes it clean against his jeans. I remember his face.

It was one of the most intimate moments I’ve shared with him. It broke me, but in the best way.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/b12wy7/fm_it_lingers_mm