Fetish

I spoke with a friend today,and we spoke about our loves, our needs, our fetishes.

I described a scene to him:

Your eyes, wide and begging and fearful and glazed with arousal.

Your lips, pink and round in an 'O' of wanting.

Your face drawn in fear and desire, your high cheekbones stark as bright spots of fear-color draw my avaricious eyes.

Your throat, bared to the blade and your body lifting convex from the bed and against my hands and my knife. Pressing yourself into the possibility of death with a mixture of sex and suicide.

Submissives speak of the confidence they have in their master, the gut knowledge that he'll never harm them.

You don't have that. You know I will harm you if the psychopath in the back of my brain slips her leash, for even a moment. You know that I want to let her, know that we can smell the blood beneath your skin and crave the taste of it on our lips and the stickiness on our hands that hold the blade.

But you arch into me, and into the blade, anyway.

That.

That suicidal desire.

That overarching need that doesn't care if it ends in death.

That is my fetish.