He presses the side of the cold blade to her breast.
From behind the blindfold she can imagine its edge – razor-sharp. Her own fear arouses her. She feels a yearning lurch in her lower belly as the point traces across her skin to cut through each of the straps of her already ruined bra, She can imagine the pink thin trail the knife leaves, lightly scoring her flesh, yet not breaking the skin. It almost burns. She is aching for his touch. She is longing for delicious pain.
The material of her brassiere slips off her shoulders and brushes her like breath as it falls to the floor.
She tries to see herself as her sees her, naked except for lacy panties, and wearing her sexy, vertiginous, bought-for-the-occasion heels. She knows that the shoes make her legs look long. her thighs toned, her calves elegant, and her ankles slim. She can feel his eyes reviewing her legs slowly, from the toe to thigh. She senses his gaze lingering on her sex, contemplating the sweet mound, then caressing her hips, gliding over her belly, pausing at her breasts, studying her hard nipples, the areolae puckered by the desperate hunger of her desire.
She imagines him calmly taking in her shoulders, her collar bones, her throat, and traveling up her arms – secured above her head – leather cuffs circling her wrists.
She feels like a sacrifice.
She can sense his dark eyes on her face, burning through the blindfold, searching her soul.
She is dizzy and breathless at the thought of all he will do to her.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Henry Asencio