This was supposed to pu

I like knives. And I like blood.
Yeah, it squicks some people. If you're one of them, then, well, skip this post.
There, you've been warned. I don't have to be guilty if you go and get all nauseous about the shit I find sexy. :-p

I really, really like knives.
Friday night, I was chatting with Terry after playing with the boys (really, that post is coming soon. Really. I promise.) and for whatever reason I pulled out my carry knife. It's this one: a Gerber Ripstop.

I like it. And so did Lucivar.
Terry laughed when she saw his eyes drawn to it over and over. She told me that he has some castration fantasies. My eyes lit up. I could feel it. I watched him shiver and her smile.
I explained how I liked the edge to it, with both the serrated and the fine edge because it gave me more flexibility. And how despite the different shape, it reminded me of a gelding knife.
Those aren't used anymore. At least, not usually. They usually use rubber bands, but I'm old-fashioned.
Lucivar's eyes got bigger and bigger. I smiled wider and wider. His eyes are pretty when they're huge, with his eyeliner smudged and the way they turn paler green than usual.

Let me digress really quickly. I work with horses. Or at least I used to. I have done gelding before. These days, it's done with the little rubber bands, but one vet I worked with did it the old fashioned way with a gelding knife. To me, it's a farm necessity, and I can't really eroticize it. But cutting in general works for me, and his responses were really fucking working for me. In fact, cutting really, really, really works for me. I love blades. I love the way they press into skin and the beautiful red lines they leave. And I seriously have a thing for blood. Like, seriously. I love the color, the taste, the texture. It's beautiful. Nick O'Donohoe, in The Magic and the Healing, referred to it as "ruby incarnadine". And I like scars. "Scars are like tattoos but with better stories." (No idea who to attribute that to, but I love it).


So I put the blade to his balls pressed the serrated edge to them just a little, still being very careful but enough to let him feel just how sharp it is. He gasped and I had to fight back a moan of pleasure. Terry just smiled.
As we sat later, his eyes kept being drawn to it- even in fetishwear I carry it, clipped to my pants pocket. At one point he crawled to me and stroked it with his fingertips. He never touched my skin, never even touched my pants! but I felt that caress in my cunt.

The next day, Terry was doing random stuff around the house, and I was having fun hurting Lucivar. Little things. Pinching, biting, grabbing his hair. Terry has an awesome toycase, and she's better with their toys than I'll likely ever be. So I don't even try to compete. I play with what I'm good at, and work on improving the rest.
I'd already showered and dressed and so of course I had my knife.
It goes everywhere with me. It's in my pocket right now, as I write this. I have a mental list I check for when I leave my house: wallet, phone, keys, first aid kit, knife. The rest were in the bedroom they loaned me, but I had the knife clipped to my pants.

So I pulled it out. His eyes got big. I opened it up. His eyes got bigger.
Here's where I digress. I like Lucivar, I really do. He's pretty. But I have specific things on specific boys I love. Jack's face and ass (he seriously has the best ass I've ever seen or played with). Kat's chest. Lucivar's eyes. They're fucking gorgeous.
And they opened up wide for me, and I grinned like a cat in the cream.
He told me a little later that he loves the look on my face as I'm holding the knife to him. I can only imagine.

I've mentioned this before and I'll mention this again. I fucking love responses. Seriously. I get off on them. And he's as responsive as a pre-St George level Lipzzaner.

Now here's where I have a memory gap. I don't really remember much of what I did or said with that knife. I'm sure I ran it over his skin, and I'm sure I played with the textures of serration and fine edge in various vulnerable spots.
But my memory works in flashes. Full color Polariods of my life.
The tip running along his inner arm while his hands were over his head and the way he shivered a little.
The blade slipping between his lips while he whimpered softly. The tip pressing lightly into his bottom lip.
Pressing it lightly against his balls again, watching him fight not to squirm.
Pressing the tip into this chest and drawing it down slowly, just enough to leave an incredibly fine line with a bare hint of blood. So careful, I had to be so careful, because what I wanted to do was more than mildly sociopathic.
Running it across his throat, using my hand to hold his chin in place just in case, pressing it in watching his face go soft.
And then I kissed him very, very gently.

Lucivar has some very dark places inside him. Jacqueline Carey refers to them as "fault lines of the soul". I love that term.
As I held the blade to him, I could feel hear those dark places in him calling out to my own dark places. I could hear them whimpering, or maybe that was just him.
He whispered to me, "If there were no rules, you'd cut me wouldn't you?"
And that rough sound went straight through my body, forked like lightning to my soul with a stop on the way at my cunt.
I whispered my answer against his lips with the blade still tight against this throat. "You know I would." His eyes closed tightly then reopened, wider than ever and I could feel everything in him straining up toward me and the blade.
I whispered in his ear, "Yes, love, I'd cut you."
He gasped.
"I'd cut you and I'd lick the blood away."
He made a small sound in the back of his throat.
"I'd work my tongue into the cut so that salt from my saliva stung and I'd swallow the blood."
He bit his lip, which drew my attention to it and I kissed it very lightly."
And then I'd kiss you and let you taste your blood on my lips."
His breath sighed out.

I don't remember much more after that. Perhaps when he reads this, Lucivar will fill in the gaps. I remember those Polariod moments and those are enough to make my entire body clench.
It's a damned good thing that boy isn't mine.
Because I'm not sure I would trust myself with him if I were the one who made the rules.

He wants a scar from my knife. And I want to give it to him. Terry, please can I break your toy? I promise I'll fix him again...