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“Watch me.”
Slowly, taking my time, I set the whip down, then open the one drawer in the side table.
I use the armchair she’s seated on as a reading nook, so I don’t keep much around it, but a few years back, Mamie Liliya travelled the north of Africa, visiting Egypt and the Sahara, Mauritania. I don’t remember exactly where she purchased the Berber dagger I retrieve. It’s one of my favorites of her many presents, though I’ve never had much use for it other than as a letter opener until now.
The sheath itself is impressive, meticulously carved, encrusted with eye of the tiger, onyx, and ivory. The blade underneath is dark, curved, threatening. I sharpened it carefully with a whetstone not six months ago.
Finally, Sarah has the sense to be afraid.
My cock twitches.
She’s thrashing furiously in her chair, attempting to get free. I try my best not to laugh at her futile attempt. When we’re done with this mess, one day, I’ll show her how to get out of zip ties; it’s not that hard, but brute force is useless.
“Stop moving,” I tell her.
She flails harder.
The point of my blade approaches her belly.
“The only way you get hurt is if you move.”
Finally, she goes still. The stupidest dog understands not to pull against a training leash.
I slide the blade between the hem of her bland, oversized tank top and her skin. It’s sharp enough to cut the fabric without my having to use my hands.
With the front cut in two, I pause to admire my handiwork.
Holy shit.
I’d noticed her tits in that bikini, but squeezed by a plain, boring, too-small bra, they’re downright lewd. Immediately, images of my sliding my cock between them flood my mind. If God exists, he’s a fucking pervert. Sarah wouldn’t exist otherwise. Unless she was crafted by the devil to lure men to perdition.
Not that I need much luring.
“Marius—” she starts.
“Unless you’re ready to tell me what I want to know, keep your mouth shut, your highness.”
There’s no way of divesting her of the bra with the aid of the blade without hurting her skin, so I leave it be, and direct the blade downward. Her shorts are loose, so I stick to the method I used for her top, slicing them from the inside out, until all that’s left holding them together is one tiny inch between her legs.
This time, I do have to use my hands. I don’t want to hurt her—I just want her to take me seriously enough to understand that I will if I must. I hook my index finger on what’s left of the fabric, and holy fucking shit. She issoaked. If the smell wasn’t pure arousal, I’d guess she’d pissed herself; she’s that wet. All of my blood rushes downwards to my pulsing cock. The poor thing doesn’t understand why we’re not sinking into this woman, who’s clearly as desperate for it as we are.
It takes all my self-control to pretend to ignore it. I tug on the fabric, while my other hand slices it. Finally, with one last stroke, I slice it up to the waist, and like the top, it falls open, baring her to me. She’s only wearing her underwear, what’s left of her clothing hanging uselessly on her limbs. Her eyes have switched fire for ice; I can feel her hatred pulse between us.
Well, in for a penny…
“Almost perfect.” I reach behind her to the clasp of her bra, and cut that, too.
This one is personal. Tits like these don’t deserve to be disrespected by such a poorly fitted, boring old thing.
“There. You’re gorgeous, aren’t you, your highness?”
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe later. Let’s play, first.”
This time, I lift the cane.
I hit those gorgeous, heavy tits first.
