Microfiction Monday (oh yeah, baby, it's back!): Stiletto

Fear.

Logically, I know that this has nothing to do with her hurting me, and everything to do with fear. Logically, I'm perfectly safe here.

When you're kneeling bound and blindfolded in the middle of the floor, though, logic can just go fuck itself. My body, not my logical mind, rules my emotions right now, and my body is afraid.

I'm sweating and shivering at the same time—big, convulsive tremors that seem to shake the whole room. A noise behind me, the soft metallic click that I know so well, tells me that she's just drawn the stiletto that she keeps in the sheath on her wrist. A wave of terror—and an equally powerful rush of arousal—courses through me, so unopposable that I'm shocked into absolute stillness. Heart in my throat, I strain for any sound that will tell me where she is.

I bask in the agony of not knowing when I'll feel her next touch, or the cool menace of the blade in her hand. Will she press the flat of that magnificent blade to my lips to kiss? Cut my bonds with it? My clothes? Or will this be the one time, the first time, that its razor-sharp edge parts flesh instead of fabric?

Entirely at her mercy, I wonder how long she can keep me from knowing where she is, or what she intends to do.

Forever, I hope. This is my favourite part.