A/N: I do not own Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright and trademarked items belong to their owners, not me.
This is a story about BDSM and specifically edgeplay. As such, it involves topics you may not be comfortable with. I hope that even if you feel like you need to stop reading, you skip to the end. Edward's closing words are very powerful, and I hope you read and enjoy them.
"Where are we going?" I ask, nervous.
He's blindfolded me and was now walking me somewhere. His chest is pressed against my back, guiding and moving me.
"Wherever the fuck I want us to go," he replies. I attempt to contain the shudder that ripples through my body at his commanding voice and presence, but fail.
I love this.
I love him. Need him. Crave him like this.
We stop suddenly, and I shiver due to the temperature this time. It's fucking cold, and I can only guess where we're going, but know better than to vocalize anymore about it. I don't want to be punished today, I only want to be pleasured. Pleasured in the most delicious of ways; the ways only Edward knows and loves.
A door opens, a car I assume, and I wonder if anyone is watching us. Have the neighbors noticed me being forced out of the house, my arms held behind my back, black silk scarf over my eyes? Probably not. Self-absorbed assholes.
"Sit," he commands.
My left foot shoots out. If I'm getting into the passenger side, I'll need to balance my foot first on the car floor. I've done this enough times that I'm well-practiced at getting into an auto while blindfolded. I hide my smirk at the thought that I'm a lucky bitch.
The door slams closed next to me and I startle. The tone of his voice has been harder than normal, and I'm worried. I suspect we're spending a night away for fun, but can't be certain.
Edward enters the car wordlessly and begins to drive us … somewhere.
At each stop, I wonder if we've arrived, or are we simply at a stop sign? A red light? Panic swells inside of me more than once at the idea that we're driving around in plain daylight, in our own car, where anyone can see. Would they recognize me? Would they think my husband was simply treating his wife to a romantic weekend away?
If only they knew.
An eternity, or perhaps ten minutes, thirty, who knows, later, the car turns off.
My body is still as I wait, my mind working overtime to figure out where we are. The car door opens on my side and the gust of cold wind hits me hard. I'm not dressed for the weather, wearing a very short, very tight skirt and a thin, cotton t-shirt he picked for me. My boots have zero traction on the ground and I'm grateful for his hand as he tugs me up and out of the car, causing me to lose my balance slightly.
Again, he's behind me, pressing me ahead. This time, I can feel the hardness of his body; he's getting turned on. From this, I can assume we aren't going someplace public. Edward has worked long and hard at controlling his body. Long before he was my Dominant, he was someone else's submissive, perfecting the art.
My hands are behind my back again, wrist in front of wrist, bound tightly by his large fingers. My fingers itch to reach and grab him, knowing from the heat that he's inches behind me. The itch doesn't last long, however, as I feel my body pressed against a cold surface. Brick, maybe? My nipples tighten and ache at the temperature and sensation. Foregoing a bra means they're just underneath my shirt, vulnerable to the elements.
Edward presses his cock into my open hand, my body scraping the building harder as he pushes against me. I let my breath out in a huff as the force of his body presses it from my lungs unwillingly. Teeth sink into the juncture of my neck and body, hard and needy. I want to moan so badly, to squirm, to find some relief, but I stand stock still, letting him own me. Each time he exerts his force over me, I sink slightly deeper into our time together in my head. I let go of my everyday life a little more, and become His.
Keys jingle and I hear the sound of a door next to me. Are we at a house? Someone's workplace? A club?
I don't hear anything other than our feet as we walk again. My fingers never leave his body; he's placed it there, and I know better than to remove my hand. Our steps echo against walls and I get a sense that wherever we are, it's an open space.
We stop walking, Edward maintaining a slight distance from my body this time, and I have to strain to keep my hand wrapped around his warm cock. My balance is even more off kilter, hands stretched behind me and my center of gravity shifts as we stand. I can hear him doing something, the rustle of material, the jingle of metal, his light, deliciously fucking evil laugh as he prepares whatever it is he's about to do to me, with me, for me.
For us, and for him, as well. What he does to me, he does for himself. The rebound of the joy I feel at pleasing and serving him is where my pleasure is obtained. Indirectly, most of the time. When I'm lucky, and good, and he's feeling generous, that's when he delivers exquisite pleasure directly to my body. The rest of the time, I am happy to spread my legs, open my mouth, lay my body out before him and serve.
He releases my hands and backs away from me. My head automatically lowers, eyes closed even though I'm blindfolded, and my hands clasp together in front of me. His pose. The one he taught me. The one that pleases him the most.
He hums lightly in approval before speaking. "You're such a good slut. I bet you're already wet and ready for me."
His hand reaches between my legs, forcing them apart as he does so, and dips into me. He's rough, aggressive, not feeling me to please me – touching me to please himself. I can feel his finger wiggle just slightly and he takes it out. I try not to laugh at the dipping the oil stick analogy that always comes into my head in these moments. He knows I'm always ready for him, for whatever he wants and needs to give me.
Wordlessly, his finger is pressing against my lips, and I open my mouth, complying with his silent request. I lick and suck his finger, lapping at my own juices, knowing what will happen if I don't clean him to his satisfaction. Either way, it's become a part of our routine I look forward to. The salty tang only serves to turn me on more as my thoughts wander.
The hand is gone from my face and lands with a sharp smack on my ass. I guess he's still behind me, from the angle of the skin against mine, and only after the sting begins to abate do I realize he's pulled my skirt up; the spank was directly on my skin, not over the fabric of the skirt.
"Spread your legs."
Complying, I move my feet what I think (and hope) is the proper distance apart. Years of playing together, blindfolded and sighted, have taught me to measure body movements with methods other than visual cues.
A crack sounds in the background and I bite my lip, thankful he can't see my face. Hopeful he can't see my face, anyway. The sound was behind me, so unless he's brought someone else in, he shouldn't be able to see. He may have brought someone else in, I realize, and wage an internal debate with myself about what I hope he wants tonight. On one hand, I get a bigger thrill the more he uses me and shows me off, but sometimes I just want him.
He's still testing out various implements. I hear the crack of what I think is a riding crop against some type of surface, chains and rope being wound or unwound, a flogger thudding against something. He's warming me up, perhaps warming himself up as well, but with each stroke, my jealousy grows. I want to be the object he's paying attention and using.
My body tightens when I feel him in proximity again. Something slips over my head, something else, and I can tell he's putting on a better blindfold. This one will be something not publicly acceptable, and I have a pretty good idea of which one it is from our collection when the smell of leather meets my nose. It also won't slip or slide during our playtime, and the shiver of anticipation that we're about to begin overtakes me.
With zero hesitation, I lift my shirt over my head. My legs move together and I pull my skirt down, removing it from my body. I fold them both, holding them in my outstretched hands, palms up. They're gone a moment later, and I feel a pang that he didn't even touch me to take them away. The hum racing through my body increases at his denial of himself.
I unzip the right first, then the left, and hold them in my right hand. My bare feet are now on very cold floor, concrete if I had to guess. The boots are tugged from my grasp just as my clothes, without a single touch or comment.
Hearing him breathe is my only indication of where he is in the room. His feet have stopped making as much noise as when we walked in, and I guess that he's removed his own shoes as well. I drift to thinking about his feet, his legs, his entire taut, lean, muscled body.
"Isabella, take two steps forward and climb onto the table."
Doing as he asks, I reach my arm in front of me to feel the surface before climbing on. It's cold, smooth, and very hard. This is no padded table, nor is it designed to be comfortable. My knee lifts and I use the sides to help pull myself up, then realize he hasn't stated if he wants me on my back or stomach. For that matter, he hasn't said whether he wants me laying or sitting. Climb onto the table. I think about his instructions and remain how I'm positioned when I climbed up: on all fours.
Lifting my neck, I raise my head and keep the smirk off my face, tightening my belly so that my back is in proper alignment. I can feel him looking at me, gazing, as he's done hundreds of times. Evaluating me. Slightly ashamed, mostly turned on, I wonder what he's thinking as he looks. Sometimes he vocalizes his thoughts as he makes his way around my body, but not usually. Typically, I'm left in quiet to create my own thoughts of what he's seeing. My own self-evaluation. It makes me strive to be better for him. Strive to look better, to give him a better physical specimen for his pleasure.
The first thud takes me by surprise, but after the initial sting, I'm prepared. My hips beg to sway and tease him, non-verbally asking for harder and harsher strokes against my backside, but my brain follows the rules. For now.
The velvety suede of the flogger strokes my skin, delivering my favorite kind of impact – the soft, thud at first, followed by harder and more stingy sensations as he ramps up and changes the angle of the falls. Each time the falls land on me, I whimper in my mind. It's like thirty fingers touching and stroking me, especially when he lands them over my dripping pussy, and I want to beg him to drop it and fuck me. Well, part of me wants that, the other part wants him to continue to flog me until I drop from exhaustion, which he's done from time to time.
"Go ahead," he says. "I want to hear you."
I'm startled by the volume and intensity of the moan as I let it go. He laughs lightly and my ears prickle at the sound, my brain delighted that he's pleased. My rigid body stays tight and upright, despite the urge for my muscles to turn to jelly.
Several back-and-forth strokes later, he pauses momentarily. What feels like cold plastic is at my entrance, moving easily past my slippery lips and sinking into my waiting cunt. I can only hum with pleasure as he moves it in and out, the ridges of what I think is the handle of the flogger he was just using on me providing an extra sensation.
His hand moves, leaving the implement inside me. The suede falls swish between my legs for a moment before settling, confirming he's been using the flogger handle, and I clench my muscles to hold it steady. This, of course, makes me want to come even more, and he knows he's torturing and teasing me. I whimper, because fuck me, he's already told me he wants to hear, and he needs to know he's affecting me profoundly.
"I know," he teases, voice coming from somewhere behind me. "I never thought I'd be jealous of plastic."
Cold metal rubs across my nipples, causing them to pucker and stand at attention. His warm fingers stroke over them once and I realize he's standing in front of me. Pinching roughly, he tugs at my left nipple, then I feel the clamp bite down. I take a sharp breath as I wait for the clamp to appear on the right, and it does moments later.
Then the warm throb begins, and I ache even more. Heat radiates from my nipples up my breasts and across my entire chest. I want him to stay where he is, to kiss me rough and hard, and touch me where I'm pinched. Instead, he adds what I think is a small weight to the chain, giving a permanent tug to them. I surmise it's a weight because I feel the tug even after I know he's moved away.
Moaning softly, I let it out the only way I can. If I don't, I'll begin to move, beg him to take me any way he wants, and he won't. He'll just punish me more for disobeying, so I breathe and moan. I let the words come out as sounds, repeating them in my head in a desperate attempt for him to unscramble them and hear my plea.
Fingertips tease my exposed clit, and moments later, a pinch to the side. I'm grateful he's placing the clips or clamps, whatever he's using, on my lips and not over my clit. The pain, sting, pleasure, and warmth spreads from my chest down to my lower half as he adds more clips. His fingers slip and he brushes the handle still inside me.
"You're so fucking wet I can't even get a good grab," he says, pinching his fingers harder against my skin.
His other hand lands on my ass, a sharp, stinging spank, and I moan again. My body clenches and I'm sure he can see the flogger bobbing with my internal movements.
I hear him hum and there's a smile behind the sound. This distracts me momentarily from his fingers, but my mind heads back to them as I feel another clip added. I begin to wonder just how many he's going to put on me, when I realize he's stopped.
The flogger is removed from my body with a slight tug, slipping out easily once I relax.
"Clean the mess you've made."
He doesn't wait for me to agree or consent. The handle is in my mouth as he finishes speaking.
Again, I'm lapping and licking at it, this time vocalizing my pleasure as I do so. At times, the handle shifts too far back and I worry I might gag, but I'm able to control my throat by making sure to keep my focus and concentrate. Relaxing, I focus on the plastic as it shifts in and out of my mouth, just as it had in my pussy. Letting my tongue glide over the ridges, I imagine it's Edward's cock, slick with my taste after fucking me.
That thought alone almost makes me come, but then his hand is lower, ghosting over the clips on my pussy lips, and the pain is a reminder that we haven't fucked. I'm just a sopping wet, needy mass of bones and muscles, at his disposal.
God, that thought makes me clench again and I purse my lips around the handle. I can smell the wet suede as it gets closer to my mouth, then is removed for the last time. His hand is still teasing over the clips on my pussy and I'm so lost in pleasure. It aches, I ache, and I need more.
My body is suddenly alone again, each part of him removed, and I want to shout in frustration. The sting of something against my clips provokes a sharp yelp and I gasp for air. Intense, sharp pain is all I feel for several minutes as he teases me with what I recognize only from the feel of it as our riding crop. He works the clips on my lips, then trails up my abdomen to the clamps on my nipples, circling them, slapping at the fleshy parts and the aching nipple.
"You're very red, Isabella. I can't tell if you're enjoying or enduring."
His voice is warm and soothing, and in that moment, I'm not sure which I'm doing either. I try to make noise, but it comes out as a needy whimper, not at all what my brain was telling my mouth to do.
A moment passes, one brief moment, where I think about the pain I will endure as I lay on the cold metal beneath me, each of the clips and clamps attached to my body forced to twist and pull, tugging at my skin. And then I drop, muscles in my body visibly tensing I'm sure, as the pain hits.
Focusing, I take deep breaths. I'm hit with such a strange wave of conflicting emotions. The sheer pain from the objects attached to my body, but the pleasure from them as well. The pleasure from hearing Edward's soft hum, knowing I've pleased him with my compliance. Knowing I've pleased him with the show of my body, accepting his pain gratefully, thankfully.
My need intensifies tenfold.
The cold of the metal eases some of the ache, but for the most part, my body feels on fire. The throb and ache radiates from my slick cunt to my nipples and back again.
Fingers probe my openings, vaginal and anal, and my breathing increases in speed and depth. I grunt as he pushes into me, thankfully between my lips and not into my ass at that moment. As he slips and slides them around inside me, I moan non-stop. He's working magic on my body, bringing his hands out to prod at the clips periodically, provoking the painful sensations, then shifting back to pleasure.
"Turn over," he says.
I do so quickly, relieved to have the pressure off my front half. The smooth leather of the crop is still teasing and torturing me, though, this time from a new angle. I can feel the rough edge of it against my skin, the loop where the leather doubles back, and I sigh. There's no sense in fighting anything he's doing, it's all exactly what I want.
As he reaches the apex of my thighs, I feel the leather move from my skin, then come down where I think it is over a clip. I hold my breath while I wait; I'm suspicious he's going to use the crop to remove the clip in (what I know from experience is) a very painful way, and if I'm not holding my breath, I will no doubt scream. Perhaps that's what he wants, but I'm not quite ready to give it to him.
Surprising me, I feel my left nipple clamp come off quickly. I can tell he's opened the clamp before removing it, but the fast open means the blood has rushed back in, and tears pool in my eyes. My body goes rigid again as he cups my breast, tongue reaching out to stroke and soothe the painful flesh. I let out my breath and sigh, bathing in my mental conflict of pleasure versus pain again. I want him to do this over and over, forever, every day of our lives. I want to feel the sting of his pain, then the soothing ultimate pleasure of everything he does.
The right nipple clamp is removed in much the same way, and I feel the weight of the chain and adornment rest on my belly as he touches and teases that side. He's more rough, plucking at the pink tip, and I let out a strangled noise. My legs shift together ever so slightly, in what's meant to be a pleasurable move, but I've forgotten about the clips and the stinging pain between my thighs is back.
"You're making a mess on my table," he says, laughing lightly. "You might just be enjoying this a little too much, eh?"
The crop is abandoned, I hear it land somewhere else in the room once it's removed from my body. Skin is against skin on my pussy, and he removes several clips in a row. I'm moaning, in pleasure and pain, as I writhe slightly beneath his touch. His tongue is on me, licking and lapping between my lips, as he continues to release clips. I realize he's finished, they're all gone, when he runs his hand over the surface of my skin. Back and forth, up and down, side-to-side, he rubs. The friction combines with the heat of the blood rushing back in, and the sensation of his tongue and lips, and I realize I'm begging to come.
"Please, oh god, please."
Two words crush my soul and make me soar as he pulls away again.
A breeze rushes over me and I shiver. I'm cold, parts of my body are wet, both from my reactions and from his saliva, and I'm horny. My whole body feels swollen, inflated from the attempt to grow larger and absorb more of his touch.
Tapping of metal against metal catches my ears, and I sharpen my focus. The fuck?
Mentally running through the bank of toys I know he has at his disposal, I begin to wonder what he's got in his hands. It could be the Wartenberg wheel. It could be a metal clamp, but he's only just taken those off. They wouldn't be coming back on so soon, unless he's going to put them somewhere else. As I think, I realize it could be any number of toys we have.
"I love your body. I love watching my little slut writhe and wriggle, watching your body fight with your brain to move. Seeing your breathing pick up, watching your boundaries drop off. You are so delectably fuckable right now. Your pussy is wet, your mouth is open in the perfect oh shape, and I bet you'd let me do just about anything I want right now. Am I right?"
He's teasing me with his words, close to my ear. I can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks, his words covering my body and making me flush with excitement, pleasure, and pride that I'm pleasing him.
My answer is more breathy than I intend and my body squirms.
"That's the perfect answer, because what I'm about to do is something you've begged me for. Sometimes I've wondered if you really want it, if you really knew what you were getting yourself into, but I realized that's not my choice to make. Now I want it, and since you offer your body, mind, and spirit to me so willingly, so beautifully, I intend to take it."
His words wash over me, scaring the living fuck out of me. What in the hell is he going to do? What have I begged him for that he's not already given me?
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Master," I say, certain my voice is quivering with anticipation and fear.
A warm hand comes to my chest, resting directly over my heart. His thumb sweeps out and slides over my nipple, still aching and sore. It perks to life again, stiffening painfully beneath his touch.
"Trust me," he reassures. "Let go."
I feel a sharp prick between my breasts, then cold metal slides down to my belly button. The burn is immediate, and my eyes move rapidly beneath both blindfolds. I still can't tell what he has, what he's doing, and it worries me.
"Do you remember asking me to mark you, Isabella?"
"Yes, Master," I half-speak, half-moan.
I never expected him to ever actually go through with it. Edward has no interest in bloodplay and has repeatedly told me he doesn't want to quote unquote go there. The thought that he'd lower one of his boundaries for me causes my excitement to multiply. I hum, moaning as the metal slips in a circle around my belly button.
His tongue laps at my skin, along the same path I assumed he dragged the blade, and the thought that he's lapping my ruby red blood excites me further.
"You taste divine," he says with a small moan. Fuck.
I hold back every emotion inside as I begin to tremble. Am I really ready for this? Do I really want him to do this, to mark my body? Even if it's not permanent, he's hurting me, genuinely hurting me.
And I kind of like it.
No, no, I don't kind of like it. I fucking love it.
Just as before, he's alternating the pain with intense pleasure. I can feel the metal against my skin and there is no drag. The blade is sharp enough, he's done enough research to know how to do this, and I'm overwhelmed again. For me – he's doing this for me.
The now warmed metal presses into my thigh and I bite my tongue to keep from making a noise. It makes a stinging path up to where the limb meets my body, and then around to the top of my mound.
"Shall I mark you here?" he asks, teasing mockery in his tone.
Thankfully, the blade lays flat against my clit, between my lips. I'm unsure how I might react if he slid the sharpened steel there, but just the thought has me moaning, desperate to press up and take the decision out of his hands. Desperate, despite my rational thought, to feel the burn of it against my inner flesh.
I can feel the blade searing a path across my torso, up to my breasts. My breathing increases and I'm panting, panicking. I want this, I want to please him, to have him mark me as his, but it's so much. The worry over the blood I'm losing is making me lightheaded, or perhaps it's the actual blood loss causing the sensation. I've lost track of where the blade has moved, shifted, pierced. The entirety of my body feels as though it's on fire, stinging from the surface cuts he's leaving, buzzing from the pleasure of his sounds and movements.
My thoughts swirl and I realize I need him to slow down. Now is the time when my needs have to come first, as I feel myself drifting away from my body. Even though I'm laying down, I can feel my body letting go. I barely have the breath to whisper, but I manage a very weak utterance of "yellow" before I let a shuddering breath out, and pray he's heard me.
His voice is right at my ear again, keeping me with him.
"Isabella, take a deep breath," he says calmly. I try to breathe as deeply as I can, but it feels panicky and shallow still. "Yes, like that. Very good. Another one."
As my lungs fill and empty, the fuzz in my brain clears just a little bit, and I'm thankful. I didn't drop a red safeword for a reason: he's given me a gift and I want to push through this feeling. This is what playing is about sometimes, finding that edge and skating along it.
Edward's hand is on my chest again, over my heart. I can feel the organ thudding deeply in my body, each whoosh of blood rushing through my veins helping me to come back to myself.
"Are you okay?"
His tone is quiet and calm, but nervous.
"I think so," I answer truthfully.
I start to feel bad. I've never had to stop a scene before (only brief pauses), and this seems like failure to me. I've disappointed him, and what if he never agrees to push any boundaries again? The tears pool in my eyes more, and I can feel the blindfold absorbing them, soaking wet against my face. I consider begging him to take it off, to let me go. I want to hide within myself, ashamed I can't even handle what I've asked for.
"Another deep breath, Isabella, I can see you panicking again. Trust me, please. You're okay. You're safe."
His hand is stroking my body, criss-crossing my chest and I have a brief fear he's spreading blood all over my body. I repeat his words in my head like a mantra. I'm okay. I trust Edward. I'm safe.
Several more deep breaths later, I feel his wet lips at my chest. He drops one solitary kiss over my heart.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
Finally, I can answer confidently and truthfully.
"Do you want me to go on, or would you like to end the scene?"
"Please, Master, I want you to continue."
My breathing has evened out, and I can only trust him to believe me now. It's in his hands, either way.
"We're almost done, my greedy girl," he says with a small laugh. I can still hear the hint of worry in his voice, and it reassures me that he cares. I know that if I had asked for the scene to end, it would have right then and there, with nothing harsh or wrong between us.
Instead, as I've requested, I can feel several swirls of the metal against my skin again, and I moan. My body is actually pressing up into the blade, in an attempt to get him to press harder, go deeper.
His fingers twine into my hair and he licks my skin several more times. Each time, the sting of the etching left by the blade reminds me I'm still here, still indulging in Edward's perfect care of me. Fingertips glide on my skin, slickness carrying them until the moisture dissipates and they skid.
"I'm going to fuck you now. I think I've earned it, Isabella, don't you?"
I'm practically purring as I speak, the pleasure carrying me through the pain again.
The thought that he's going to be inside me, and soon, almost sends me over the edge. I feel what I guess are his fingers first, teasing and playing with me. He loves to take his time, and there's nothing I love more than him taking his time... usually.
Right now, though, I want to be fucked very hard, and very thoroughly. Normally, I'd beg with my eyes, use every trick I know of to silently convey my need, but I'm left with nothing at my disposal.
His warm body covers mine and I bring my hips up, teasing him. If I can't outright tell him, or plead with my looks, I can use my body to my advantage.
I'm surprised when he pulls my legs and they dangle off the edge of the table. This metal at the end of the table is cold, and my body wants to shrink away from it. Opening my legs wide, I smirk slightly. I know from experience that in this position, if Edward thrusts just right, he'll be not only hitting my g-spot, but rubbing his pelvic bone against my clit. I shiver in anticipation.
His hands run up and down my legs, still stinging on the surface, and he slaps my clit, startling me. I moan and press harder into his fingers, which he's left at the top of my pussy.
"Such an eager slut," he says softly, his words betraying his gentle tone.
The corners of my mouth tug up, and I smile halfway. I am his eager slut, eager only for him, his cock, his hands, whatever he's willing to give me.
Edward wastes no time, pushing into me quickly and hard. I groan in appreciation, my body responding automatically to his actions. If I'm not careful, I'll come too fast. The balance I'm hanging on now, dangling between the delicate edge of pain and diving into the pool of ecstasy at my feet, is precarious.
He continues to fuck me, hard and fast, and I know he's intent on taking me right to the edge. He must know I'm already there. His hands reach up to lightly slap my nipples, pulling and pinching, then making their way back down to do the same on my clit.
"Not yet, dirty girl," he admonishes, obviously feeling my inner muscles clench.
My back begins to hurt, the friction of my skin against the metal as he's thrusting is unpleasant. I arch my body up into his, and he groans loudly as he comes. His fingers are digging into my thighs, some right over where I can feel the burning sting still, and I begin to cry out. I'm desperate, frantic.
Taking gulping breaths, I remind my body to still, to pause the emotions and physical reactions that want so heavily to crash down on me.
One of Edward's hands is at my clit, rubbing furiously. Not in an unskilled manner, mind you, in the best way possible, he's bringing me to a quick orgasm, but I don't have permission yet. His other set of fingers are working magic on my breasts.
"Please," I beg.
"Almost," he replies. "Almost."
I'm at the cusp, and my entire body is wound so tightly, I know it's a matter of a few more back-and-forth motions and I won't be able to hold on. The physical reaction to stimulus can only be held off so long and the body will react with or without the brain's permission. I do everything I can, pull out every mental trick I know, and hang on to the ledge by the tips of my fingers. Add to this the fact that he's still inside me, and I can feel him growing hard again, and I'm a fucking desperate woman.
His fingers release my nipple and his nails scratch down the front of my body as he very quietly, very calmly says, "Now."
I do the only thing I can. I scream. I scream loudly, wildly, and I'm sure if anyone is in any proximity to where we are right now, they're dialing 911, certain someone's being murdered.
Moments later, I feel as if I reconnect to my body.
This is how it happens most of the time with Edward. He takes me on such a high that I lose myself. Then I find myself again, and it's glorious.
I'm a heaving, sobbing mess as I come down.
It takes only moments for me to realize what we've done, what I've allowed to be done to me in the haze of pleasure-seeking. I wonder if I've made the right choices. I've just let someone take a blade to my body, and cut me. The panic from a few minutes earlier hits me, and I don't know what to do. Edward knows, however. And I remember and remind myself that he knows me better than I know myself, always.
Covering my body with his, he begins to whisper and talk to me. I tune in and realize he's thanking me. He's thanking me? Part of my panic dissipates, and I realize that some of my fears were centered around him being regretful of what we did.
Breathing heavily, I try to contain my tears, but I'm mostly failing. I feel Edward's hands at the back of my head, undoing both blindfolds. He releases them slowly, carefully exposing my eyes to the light they've been deprived of for what feels like hours. As I open them, I look at him and see the emotional toll the night has taken on him, as well. He kisses my lips softly, reassuring me of everything.
We lay like that for several minutes, his body covering mine, until we're sweaty and I can feel stinging again.
"Ow," I whisper.
Edward sits up, knees on either side of my body, and I notice hes not covered in blood, as I expect him to be. Before I can process or really think about why, my eyebrows furrow and I look at him questioningly.
"I'm not revealing my tricks. Hopefully now you'll remember that your mind is a great weapon," he says. The smirk on my face tells me he's very satisfied with himself.
"But-" I begin, but he cuts me off with a look.
I can't decide if I'm glad or disappointed as I look at the raised, red lines over my body. He hasn't cut me once. Yes, my skin is angry red where he's obviously been dragging something across it, but it wasn't at blade after all.
My head is shaking again, and I'm truly conflicted about how to feel. The euphoria hits, however, and I begin to laugh through my tears. I sit up all the way, resting my arms on my bent knees, and put my head in my hands. I realize then, I'm relieved.
I know we'll spend the next several hours indulging in aftercare for each other, especially after an intense scene like this, but I'm struck again by how he knows me better than I know myself.
I'm grateful, as well, that he takes the time to know me like this. And I'm proud.
I'm His, and he is mine, and it's perfect.
I suspect this will be a one shot, but I may expand with other boundary pushing scenes between these two, if the reception and feedback is positive. Thank you for taking the time to read my little story!