PARAMOUR
With a shivering hand he reached for it. The blade that stood proudly upon its stand in the hall. Try as he might, it was impossible to form any recollection as to when the last time was. It wasn't a ritual, no. And neither could he go back far enough in time to remember when it began.
He pulled, gently, the blade from its lacquered sheath. Yes, it was lighter than the last time. This he remembered. And it still shone with the same brightness as it had. He lowered himself to his knees.
The dainty corners of his lips twitched, and curved into a bitter smile, as he drew his eyes close. Then he felt the cool, soothing touch of the clean metal upon his cheek. He sighed contentedly, adoring the blade, adoring his pale skin.
Then the mirror. He turned to it, and undid the cord that held his hair together. The ebony curtain fell about his waist, and this, the blade caressed. He smiled again. Yes, he missed this touch. Dark, dangerous, and strangely erotic.
He parted his red lips in a sigh, and from these came his tongue between two perfect rows of teeth. He passed his tongue over the length of the cool steel. Sensuously, hungrily. And he sighed again, ceasing only to gently draw his loose, black sleeve up his arm.
Beneath the soft cotton lay a smooth layer of white. Pale, creamy, and complimented by a long, fading scar along his forearm. It had taken him months to recuperate from the last time he did this. And it had stunned the house into silence before the bustle of the servants had begun. He traced the line with a feminine finger, and his eyes narrowed. Around the handle his grip tightened with growing confidence, his lean muscles tensing in anticipation.
And he pressed the blade to his skin, breaking the layers, drawing the blood, and spreading the pain. He threw back his head in satisfaction; his body excited by the strange tingling that rushed from his arm to every other inch of his being.
A lustful moan, and he gazed lovingly at the dark colour of his life. It streamed down the slopes of his slender arm and wound around it until it reached the point of his elbow, where it gathered and fell to the cold floor. He raised the wound to his smiling lips which kissed the red line lovingly, smudging the blood. And he came to lick his lips. After which he pressed his tongue to the parted flesh of his outstretched arm.
He winced. The sharp pain jolted back. Then it grew hot. And again, he slowly drew the blade along his arm, cruelly cutting across the wound, and shuddered as the familiar pleasure ran through his veins and across his skin.
And the third strike was the last; he saw nothing but white as he lost the strength to wield the weapon, his final cry mingled with a satisfied moan.
Yes, this was what he'd missed. He fell back onto the stained tatami and smiled, panting. It wouldn't be long before they found him. The thought was amusing. His chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep intake of the air, thick and rich with the scent of blood. And he gazed at the blade.
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// Just a short piece that came to me after a discussion I won't bring up. It's not very well done; as an honest opinion. But I do welcome constructive feedback. Thanks for reading~ ^^ //
With a shivering hand he reached for it. The blade that stood proudly upon its stand in the hall. Try as he might, it was impossible to form any recollection as to when the last time was. It wasn't a ritual, no. And neither could he go back far enough in time to remember when it began.
He pulled, gently, the blade from its lacquered sheath. Yes, it was lighter than the last time. This he remembered. And it still shone with the same brightness as it had. He lowered himself to his knees.
The dainty corners of his lips twitched, and curved into a bitter smile, as he drew his eyes close. Then he felt the cool, soothing touch of the clean metal upon his cheek. He sighed contentedly, adoring the blade, adoring his pale skin.
Then the mirror. He turned to it, and undid the cord that held his hair together. The ebony curtain fell about his waist, and this, the blade caressed. He smiled again. Yes, he missed this touch. Dark, dangerous, and strangely erotic.
He parted his red lips in a sigh, and from these came his tongue between two perfect rows of teeth. He passed his tongue over the length of the cool steel. Sensuously, hungrily. And he sighed again, ceasing only to gently draw his loose, black sleeve up his arm.
Beneath the soft cotton lay a smooth layer of white. Pale, creamy, and complimented by a long, fading scar along his forearm. It had taken him months to recuperate from the last time he did this. And it had stunned the house into silence before the bustle of the servants had begun. He traced the line with a feminine finger, and his eyes narrowed. Around the handle his grip tightened with growing confidence, his lean muscles tensing in anticipation.
And he pressed the blade to his skin, breaking the layers, drawing the blood, and spreading the pain. He threw back his head in satisfaction; his body excited by the strange tingling that rushed from his arm to every other inch of his being.
A lustful moan, and he gazed lovingly at the dark colour of his life. It streamed down the slopes of his slender arm and wound around it until it reached the point of his elbow, where it gathered and fell to the cold floor. He raised the wound to his smiling lips which kissed the red line lovingly, smudging the blood. And he came to lick his lips. After which he pressed his tongue to the parted flesh of his outstretched arm.
He winced. The sharp pain jolted back. Then it grew hot. And again, he slowly drew the blade along his arm, cruelly cutting across the wound, and shuddered as the familiar pleasure ran through his veins and across his skin.
And the third strike was the last; he saw nothing but white as he lost the strength to wield the weapon, his final cry mingled with a satisfied moan.
Yes, this was what he'd missed. He fell back onto the stained tatami and smiled, panting. It wouldn't be long before they found him. The thought was amusing. His chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep intake of the air, thick and rich with the scent of blood. And he gazed at the blade.
----------
// Just a short piece that came to me after a discussion I won't bring up. It's not very well done; as an honest opinion. But I do welcome constructive feedback. Thanks for reading~ ^^ //