Tears of Many Kinds - Part I

Walking into the room, it’s hard not to notice that something is off. Moments later my brain registers what it is. The table, the one to be used as a desk, is pushed away from the wall and completely bare. The lamp that once rested upon it now sits on the floor in the corner. The chairs beneath the window are crowded together; the desk chair now fills any empty space.

I’m in the bathroom when he enters. I hear him moving about but I don’t rush. I need these few moments alone to compose myself for what I know is coming. In the car, his voice low, smooth, chilled and as serious as death, he said, “I’m going to hurt you, Tess.” It’s the way he says my name, letting it linger on his tongue, emphasizing and enunciating each consonant, making them reverberate with sadism, that frightens me more than usual. So, I brush my teeth, I swig, swirl and spit mouthwash, I change into my sheer black chemise and I take a few deep breaths before sitting on the bed across from him. Victor leans in and kisses me. His lips, so soft and plush, linger on mine. His tongue pushes past my parted lips and snakes around mine. In that moment, I feel as though I could kiss him forever.

Out of nowhere his palm flies towards my face, I flinch and part of the blow is deflected to my ear, making it ring. It scares me but I have no time to think before he slaps me again and my face blooms red with heat and anger and fear eddying around a core of intense arousal.

“Did he come in your face, slut? Did he, you bitch?”

“Yyyyes,” I mumble, and he hits me again making me obscenely wet. The room closes in around me; nothing exists but our two bodies, eyes boring into each other trying to read the other’s thoughts. His eyes are so cold it makes him seem unflappable, tenacious, immovable in fulfilling his desires of the moment. And what he desires most is my pain.

“Get the rope, Tess,” he says. His eyes darken and glisten as the words leave his lips.

I shake my head. “No,” I say simply. But it’s disingenuous and he knows it.

His voice is soft and liquid, silky, “You haven’t come all this way for me to kiss you. Be a good girl, get the rope.”

I rise and cross the short distance to my bag, painfully aware of his eyes on me and of that table so oddly barren, but I rummage through it until I have the three skeins of luxurious, decadent black hemp given to me by my dear friend, R, straight from Seattle and Twisted Monk. My friend enjoys thinking of me suffering. Lovely girl. Victor doesn’t waste time. He starts wrapping rope around my wrists and then thinks he might have to cut the thirty foot length in two until he notices the careful hand whipped ends and decides it would be criminal to do so; he’ll work with it the way it is. I watch his face; his expression so intent, fully concentrated on the task at hand. He tests his work, slipping a finger between the ropes and my skin, before making me get up and walk to the table.

Thoughts of altars and sacrifice fill my head and soak my sex as I press my chest and belly flat against the hard surface of the table. Victor ties my wrists, pulling tightly, giving me nearly no slack, to the legs of the table. Then he walks behind me, forces my legs as far apart as the rope between them will go and secures them equally tightly. He doesn’t get the gag yet, not yet, first he has something to show me and I know he wants to hear me whimper. He won’t be disappointed.

When he walks away, I try to look back but don’t have enough range of motion to be able to see him. I feel like I might burst into tears. My day has been filled with stress, both standard and unexpected and I am truly terrified at what I imagine he’s doing. I don’t have long to wonder before he lets me see exactly what has been occupying him: his razor. He places new blades, still wrapped in their protective, waxy paper, on the table in front of me and unfolds his razor.

“Do you know how sharp these are, bitch? Do you know how still you’d better be when I press the blade against your tit?” he asks while setting the blades into the handle. His eyes have grown cold, so cold and his manner normally so warm and cheery is equally icy. I know nothing save my safe word will divert him from what he has in mind. If it will at all; no matter how many times we are together, how many times he has shown concern for me, I am never quite certain I can stop him. And restrained like this, oh god, I don’t have a chance. And yet, though no amount of tears, no begging, no screaming, nothing except one little word that I am loathe to utter will divert him from the his goal, my heart beat races, my palms dampen and my wetness leaves no doubt that I am insanely (yes, insanely is perfect) aroused.

He leans in, his face inches from mine, regarding me, feasting on the fear in my eyes, on the tremor in my lower lip. Devouring these signs, he gorges on the physical manifestations of my terror. A terror mixed with a degree of trust large enough for me to allow this, even to crave it.

“You have such a pretty face, Tess,” he says as he brings something to my cheek. I don’t know what -his finger, the handle of the razor, the blade – seeing him near my face with the blade has made me squeeze my eyes closed in terror. I just can’t bear to look. My mouth is so dry; I don’t think I can answer when he speaks to me. “You’d best stay very still, don’t you think, baby?”

Despite my closed eyes, I manage to cry. Not the immense flood I expected and I know would have been drowning me now had I not had a pomegranate martini with dinner. I had been close to tears waiting for him to pick me up at the station due to my day; a series of aggravating occurrences and stressors that now culminate with me at his mercy. But now, while not even buzzed from the alcohol, I am calmer. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. My tears, the few times he has been able to make me weep uncontrollably, are intoxicating to him and cathartic to me. He moves the razor as I mumble over and over, “Not my face, baby. Oh god, please, not my face.” I don’t think he’d cut me, I really don’t, and not my face, but I don’t know, not for sure, no, not for sure.

He steps back, through tear clouded eyes I see his cock, so hard that it’s straining at the pants he has yet to remove. I lick my dry lips at the thought of taking him in my mouth.

“You’re not getting my cock yet, bitch,” he spits out. His accompanying cruel derisive laugh makes me wish I wasn’t tied up so I could slap him.

Behind me again, he bends down, gently kisses my neck, my shoulders, my arm before licking my earlobe, making me tremble even more; I sense exactly what this is – the calm before the storm. Whispering into my ear, letting the silky fabric of my lingerie rub between his fingers, he says, “You didn’t want to wear this again now, did you?”

I mumble my one word answer, “No.”

The sound of the razor catching on the sheer stretchy fabric is brief as it rapidly slices down the center right above my spine. I shiver thinking about all the delicate mechanisms under my skin: muscles, sinews, disks, bones; the very things that allow me to walk. My thoughts are disrupted as the razor reaches the top of my panties and splits them apart easily, the blade so damn close to my ridiculously soaked sex. He takes his time with me, enjoying each shudder, each quiver, the way I bite my lower lip, the way my eyes go wide with fear as he traces lines in my skin with the razor. I don’t know if he’s cut me. I don’t think so. But I feel an unmistakable sharpness that can only be the blade. My face is damp with sweat and tears. I think I’m begging him to stop, not to cut me, please, please, please. I’m don’t know what I’m thinking as the razor trails over the rounded globes of my ass and down my thighs. My emotions, my fears, my lust are all jumbled together in a Gordian knot that defies undoing.

Then he places the razor on the table and walks to the bed to retrieve his belt.