Page 8 of My Bloody Valentine

“Candice,” I manage to croak around the lump forming in my throat.

“Candice,” he repeats, uttering each syllable as if savoring the sound. “My little Valentine's Day Candy. I wonder, are you just as sweet?”

“More like sour.” The words leave my lips before I can stop them.

In true cartoon fashion, I clasp my hands over my mouth, as if that will somehow put the words back in. He simply smiles and shakes his head.

“I guess I’ll just have to be the judge of that. My name is Rory, but while we’re together, you can just call me Master.”

“Master?” The word feels foreign as it leaves my lips, but somehow, it also feels so right. Such an interesting conundrum, but one I have no time to think through.

“Yes, Master. Now, up.”

“But I just got down here.”

He raises an eyebrow, that one gesture making my stomach flop about, sending butterflies racing through me. “We’re not going to have to start tonight off with a punishment, are we?”

“No, Master.”

“That’s my good girl. Up. I’m prepared to give you some leeway, seeing as you have no experience in submission, but I warn you, my patience is thin. Now then, do you care anything about this dress?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because I plan to destroy it.”

My breath comes out in a whoosh as relief floods my veins. At least one wish will come true tonight. Wrapping his arms about my waist, he hoists me up onto the contraption behind me.

Despite all attempts at maneuvering me, I can’t seem to get my knees to spread so that I’m straddling the bench. Try as I might, the dress is just too tight around my hips.

The room is silent as Rory looks me up and down, his lips thinning in annoyance. In the quiet, the schnick of his pocketknife sounds impossibly loud. The edge is sharp, that much is clear. He holds it up into the dim, ambient light, letting the fake candles glint off the razored edge.

“I have limited time with you, and I refuse to lose out on precious fucking time because of this dress.” Gripping the edge, he pokes his knife through, then drags it up, cutting through the thick fabric as if it’s butter.

My heart pounds in my chest as he zips up, stopping just at the cusp of my mound. He doesn’t cut me, but God does he get too close for comfort. Instead of being frightened or repelled, the intrusive part of my brain wonders what it would be like to have him actually cut me.

I’ve seen it in movies. I remember the burn I felt when getting a paper cut. But to this day, I’ve somehow never been cut by a knife. Before he can pull away, I reach down between my thighs, my breath coming in frantic gasps.

He stands there, eyes boring into mine as I tip the knife downward, forcing it to graze against my sensitive skin. I can almost feel the cool metal touching my fevered flesh, but he yanks it way, dancing it just out of reach.

“If knife play is what you want,” he growls, “then I’m more than willing to oblige. But not like this.” His eyes flash red in the lamps, making him look like some wild demon.

“I- I was just curious.”

“And curiosity is just fine. Just remember what happened to the cat. Or, I guess, in your case, your pussy.”

Flipping the knife closed, he grabs me off of the bench and stands me upright. With a powerful tug, he rips the dress the rest of the way up, tearing and shredding, attacking the fabric like a man possessed. Just the intensity in which he rends the clothes from my body makes my core throb with need. I need this. I need him.

It takes him no time at all to leave the offending garment in shreds at my feet. All that’s left is my lacy white bra and scandalous thong. It’s not something I normally wear, but I wanted tonight to be special for Grant.

Funny how things can change in just a handful of hours. Now, instead of my fiancé trailing his eyes down my body, it’s someone I don’t even know. But I’ll admit that I almost prefer this.

I could never tell Grant my deepest wants, my depraved fantasies. He was too upright for that, too content with what we had. At least that’s what I told myself. Seeing him balls deep in my best friend changed all that.

He probably still wouldn’t want to engage in the filthy things I’ve read, but Rory doesn’t seem to actually mind. In fact, the very idea of using his knife on me seems almost desirable to him, as if the trapped person inside me isn’t so bad after all.

Scooping me up into his arms, he carries me over to an ornate bed. It’s as if I weigh nothing. I feel weightless, floating, as if nothing can touch me. Such a heady feeling.

When he stretches out my arms and legs, shackling them to the plush bed, I don’t even put up a fight. It’s as if the Candice I once was is being slowly peeled away from me, leaving me bare.