Knife Play

My name is Laura. I'm 5'3", light skinned and blonde, lean with muscle definition. I am married to a white man named James but also have a secret latin lover named Ramoñ.

Ramoñ loves when I behave like a whore. He eggs it on and wants to hear about all the sexual adventures I have, far from my husband's eyes. Every time I mess around with other men, I send him pictures, video, or audio while I'm doing it, to drive his imagination wild. And then I write the story for him so he knows every detail of my whoring. These are those stories.

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Waking up in a post-nap haze, I'm lazily talking to Ramoñ about my day, lying in his arms in the bed, as he reaches over to his nightstand, opens the drawer, and pulls out a pocketknife. I don't even notice, too wrapped up in my retelling of my day at work.

Suddenly I feel cool steel on my skin and my voice immediately trails off as I glance down and see a knife against my chest. 'He grabbed that knife without me ever seeing it,' I think. 'He had it against my body before I even realized what he was doing.' Ramoñ knows how to use a knife. He is military-trained. And right now, Ramoñ is staring at the knife as he slowly moves it across my chest, dragging it against my nipples.

He notices that I've stopped speaking, my breath caught in my throat. He looks up at me. "Go on," he urges. "I'm listening." A slow smile moves across his face. I've lost my train of thought. My mouth has gone dry. I'm thinking of nothing but Ramoñ with that knife that suddenly touched my body.

I mentally search my brain. I was talking about something. I don't remember. Oh, yes I do. I restart my story, talking about the latest frustration at work. Ramoñ goes back to watching the knife as he moves it over my breasts, scraping it across my nipple like a fingernail scratch. "Don't move," he orders me. I try not to, but my breath is hitching as he trails the blade down my belly to my thigh.

He traces the curve of my inner thigh as my voice lilts in response to the knife's movements. He roughly pushes my legs apart as he moves the blade slowly up to my pussy. He teases me, putting the knife directly over my pussy, watching my abs as they tense. My breathing is irregular... when I'm breathing. Right now I'm holding my breath.

He traces the blade back up my belly to my chest, playing with my nipples as I try hard not to let my breath hitch. "Don't move," he says again. And then he asks, "What if I used the sharp point of the blade?" And without waiting for an answer to his question, as if he was just wondering aloud and no answer was necessary, he turns the blade and watches as the point lightly touches my skin. The kind of sharp point you'd expect to find on a knife made for a man who knows how to use one.

He traces the point down my stomach towards my pussy and watches as a sharp red line appears in its wake. A line created by a man who knows exactly how hard to push on a knife to make a red line without drawing blood. EXACTLY how hard to push.

I watch as he chuckles. My eyes narrow at him. "What's so funny?" I ask.

"Nothing," he replies, still smiling. He crosses the blade to my hip and another red line appears. He smiles deviously. He's enjoying this far too much, I think. But then, I'm enjoying it too.

He places the knife directly over my clit and he hears me take a sudden breath in and hold it. I'm barely expelling air. He slowly pulses the flat part of the blade onto my clit, watching me as my eyes flutter back into my head and I moan. Then he slides a finger just an inch or two into my pussy, moving his fingers in tandem with the blade on my pussy. I moan again. And again.

I can feel the blade pushing down on my pussy once, twice, three times, a slow rhythm building. Then slowly he slides his fingers out of my pussy and suddenly I feel one shoved deep into my ass, making me gasp while he traces the knife around my pussy lips. I open my eyes just in time to see him drop the knife on the bed and bury his face between my legs.

His tongue is a soft contrast to the hard steel of the knife, and I groan aloud and bury my fingers in his shoulders as he brings me to a hard orgasm with his tongue, leaving me panting hard on the bed. I collapse in ecstasy, my arms thrown to the side, my heart beating wildly. He smiles at me, seeing me so spent, and crawls onto the bed next to me, wrapping me in his arms tightly. "Your husband ever do that to you?" he asks.

"Never," I reply.

Later, as I get up to dress, I glance at my naked body in the mirror, and I see it: A bright red letter R extending from just below my breasts to the tip of my pussy. He had marked me as his.