Exercise caution before you decide to click on the more option and read the rest of this post. It isn’t that I am reluctant to show you any part of my dark nature, but I know how it feels to have a preconceived idea about someone torn away in a moment of realization. As funny as it sounds, I like the illusion that I am a romantic lover, that perhaps you view me that way, instead of my more frequent nature - often demanding and selfish, meticulous and calculated. Maybe you already knew, perhaps you’ve had a sadist occupy your heart before and recognize the nature of the beast. Romantic creatures, we are not. N’s and my relationship depends on her ability to yield without always having answers available in the moment. It balances out in the long term, give and take being what they are in this unique relationship… This which follows is one of those times without balance.

This is a re-telling, not a guide for piercing, cutting or other blood play and is performed by someone with a great deal of experience with a partner I trust and who trusts me (most of the time.) I have no desire to describe the sterilization process, proper cleaning of wounds and equipment or, in general, anything that takes away from my enjoyment of writing it…

In short, don’t try it if you don’t know what the fuck you are doing.

I don’t stop and consider what it is she’s doing, but instead simply snap my fingers and watch her head pop up. I see the tilted arch of her brow, the start of a rebellion at my rude summoning of her attention. I watch her as she folds her arms over her chest, putting down the book in her lap, her place held by her thigh and the precarious perch of the pages. ‘Yes?’ she says with very little patience. I smirk at her tone.

I hit the button for the speaker phone and then mute, the voices continuing to drone on about purchase numbers and other budget issues as I put the receiver back in the cradle. ‘Get me a pen, please, this one seems to have run out of ink.’

She makes a noise, somewhere in the realm of disgust, but gets up. I ignore the way she slaps her book down on the table and watch her as she crosses to a nearby drawer and jerks it open. I smirk again, but say nothing as she rummages through its contents. She closes it and then opens three more in rapid succession before looking at me in frustration, her hands flung into the air in marked annoyance. I unmute the phone and respond to a question and then hit the button again. ‘Yes,’ I say with biting sarcasm, ‘because I would call you in here if I could walk over to it myself. Upstairs, on the table with my wallet.’

She mumbles something under her breath that draws my attention to her retreating back until she is out of sight. The words are inconsequential because the act says enough. She’s put out by this demand on her time. I scrub my hand over my face and sigh in frustration as my pen still doesn’t do anything other than make a groove in the paper as I try to take another note. I’m impatient, the first of many signs that I need to take a moment and relax, but I’ll be damned if I will this time. I watch the stairs, staring at them until she reappears long moments later, her hands hidden, tucked behind her back. I arch a brow, and a moment later dozens of pens, markers and pencils scatter across my desktop, emptied out of the storage container where I kept them.

I have to swallow to keep my temper in check. It is the wrong moment, just then, to catch me with such an overt act, and I picture her face turning dark red as the life is choked out of her. Instead, with an overly bright smile, she walks back to her book and I refrain from my aggression and only shoot daggers at her back with my eyes. The call continues, and I pluck a pen out of the carnage and scribble notes absently.

It is at least another 20 minutes before I finally beep out of the call and sit there with the gray daylight spilling through the windows. The call is a vague memory seconds later, my mind shifting immediately back to the now neatly lined up pens. I’m not certain when I make my mind up to act, but it’s there suddenly and even before the thought finishes, I am pulling my shirt over my head. She sits in the room just beyond where I am in and the movement doesn’t go unnoticed. Her eyes widen a moment before she catches herself and the surprise fades to an inquisitive tilt of her head. The book in her hand lowers a fraction. I place my shirt on the back of the sofa.

‘What’s your safeword?’ The words are said casually, but my actions bely the indifferent tone. I watch her as I am stepping out of my dress shoes, unfastening the watch at my wrist. I hear her breath catch and see uncertainty take over. The book is placed beside her on the sofa. She doesn’t think to hold her place.

‘Uh. Um.’ She wets her lips, studying me in the alert manner of prey. ‘Dae….’ She almost whispers my name.

‘What is your safeword?’ I repeat more forcefully, now moving around the furniture closer to where she sits. She unfolds her legs and starts to rise awkwardly, as if they can’t bear her insignificant weight. My hand closes around her upper arm gently and I feel the heat of her skin lick mine. She studies my face, her eyes darting to each of mine as if trying to gauge the severity of her circumstance. I squeeze lightly on her arm.

‘Firefly.’ She blurts out a moment later as my other hand starts to rise. It’s that subtle shift of power that we each silently acknowledge and accept - her caution, her fear of me are all a part of this. I control her in this world, when all pretense and politeness fade away to nothing. Here, she is mine, and I govern her as a monarch might, as property - cherished, protected, zealously guarded.

As things go, there are often times when those big steps are simply an accumulation of many smaller ones. When prudence forces you to make those smaller choices, those smaller decisions even as your mind and heart demand the leap. It is the same with pain, or pleasure even, building step over step until finally you are in the middle of something far greater than you, greater than your partner, your lover. But this, this wasn’t one of those times when she would earn such a dedicated appreciation for her undertaking and I loosened my hand from her arm to simply grasp the back of her neck until I heard a a harsh sound gurgle from her throat. I pushed her towards the step, but kept my hand upon her, not trusting her not to flee despite the assurances of a safeword.

I shut the door as we went through it and shoved her forward so that she stumbled to keep from falling. The speed at which she turned around to face me amused me, and I didn’t bother to hide the resulting quirk of my mouth. ‘Strip.’ I said to her as I walked toward the bed and pulled the expensive comforter off of of it, along with a few other blankets until all that remained were the cream colored sheets. I knew I would have to replace them later. She was slow in responding until I glanced at her and then the movements became urgent, clothing leaving her body with remarkable speed. Was it fear, or anticipation, I wondered as I walked to the closet and pulled out a small, rolling metal cart. She stilled when she saw it, its presence enough to ensure her exactly what I had in mind for entertainment.

She crawled onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her legs while I scrubbed my hands in the sink. I walked back over to her and sat on the edge of the bed, still struggling to control the simple and yet complex urge I had to make her cry in less precise ways, more brutal ways. I could bully her, my size and hers being what they are is enough to ensure I’d win in a physical confrontation, but it would prove nothing - nothing worth knowing, or wanting to know at least. I nodded my head and she unwrapped, laying back against the bed with stiff limbs, her chin quivering. She realized this, whatever was to follow, was a punishment and there was a stiff resolve shining in her dry eyes that she would accept it.

And I can only imagine that she stubbornly hoped to keep those dry eyes. She hates to appear weak.

I pulled out a few items, setting them on top on a tray. I spoke as I opened a package of gloves and pulled them, finger by finger, onto my hand. ‘I won’t restrain you, at least, not for the first part of this, but if you move, it will be worse for you.’ She said nothing, but watched me thread silk into a needle her wide eyes missing nothing. ‘Cross your wrists above your head and lay them back against the pillows.’ She obeyed, but reluctantly. Needles weren’t her favorite thing after having experienced the sensation of one scraping across the bone in her forearm. It’s excruciating pain, beyond reason.

I placed the curved needle to the skin at her crossed wrists and looked down at her. ‘Take a breath.’ The setting was intimate, in spite of the overly bright lighting, and the words I spoke hung in the air as if a feather caught by an invisible hand. I felt a tremor go through her and waited until she sucked enough oxygen in before saying quietly, ‘Release.’ This word was said as I pushed the needle into her skin and pulled it through, dragging a length of silk with it. A broken sound of pain sounded in her throat, but she pressed her lips together to keep it inside.

‘Again.’ I felt her eyes upon me with the same tangible sensation as my fingers upon her skin. ‘Release.’ I pushed the needle through her skin. It yielded easily, melting into her skin like cream, a tangible, curved, ridge under the flesh, before appearing again, dragging silk thread behind it. The fingers on her untouched arm curled into her palms. I suspect she fought the urge to retreat, to perhaps even whisper her safe word and make it all go away. Curiosity is her failing and mine, always wanting to see what the future brings.

‘Another.’ This process was repeated until two uneven 8-like X’s, lay upon her skin, accented by angry flesh and small dots of blood. I kissed her forehead and then shifted as I pulled the thread around a portion of my headboard, before placing the needle at her other wrist. I used my free hand and pressed my thumb into her palm. ‘Don’t squeeze.’

‘I love you, D.’ She said it softly with desperate tone of urgency. I smiled, but remained silent, focused. I waited until I felt some of the tension ease out of her, and heard the expectant intake of air.

It went in easily once again. ‘Release.’ And like that, one by one, the sutures went in. Afterwards, her wrists lay there crossed, bound by an easily broken stretch of silk thread which served only to restrain her as long as she willed it to be so. There was a way out, if indeed she could make such a painful choice. I cut the thread, leaving the end dangling and ran my gloved fingers over the cord lightly. I felt her jerk and savored the tremor, locking it away in memory.

‘Do you want to move your wrists?’ I asked and she rapidly shook her head no, as if she already knew what my deviant mind had plotted. Indeed, I’d left slack in the thread to give her room to error, or provide false hope of an out that didn’t involve blood or pain. I felt a strange swell of pride that she would know, even suspect this, and found it odd. I wanted to kiss her, but simply moved the supplies away and pulled off my gloves.