Knives

Kneeling on the floor, a towel protecting my knees, I was eager to get started.  I had one eye on the large, sharp butcher knife Master had placed on the cutting board at the kitchen table.  My ankle cuffs pressed into my skin in a comforting way as I knelt.   He told me to get started, pressing the tip of the knife into my neck.  It is necessary to be vigorous and yet cautious in such circumstances.  

Another day, it is his short sword, also known as kindjal.  As I lie on the floor the the tip touches my chest, right at the sternum.  My heart responds, as does my swelling cunt.   The heart rate increase, understandably due to fear.  The cunt?  Traitorously lubing now, becoming excited at the thought of rape and mayhem?   Hard to say why.   But it does, and when he slides into me, with the sword at my neck, again I'm struggling to hold back any vigorous movements that may injure me, striving to be still and accept his plundering attentions.  When he tells me to come I can't help myself, regardless of my attempt to be still and avoid injury.   It is only a small orgasm, this time, because I'm afraid.  When he puts the sword aside and slaps my face, hard, over and over, on both sides, sometimes with a backhand, I am driven to a sexual frenzy and I come with abandon.