by Mary Maxwell

She lay curled on her side, facing away from him. The window was open, and he could hear the sounds of the city outside: a bus, sighing to a stop at the curb, rap music blaring from someone's car, two drunks arguing on the street corner. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Summer in the city.

"Did you come?" he asked her.

She didn't move. "I'm OK." Her voice was flat.

"But you didn't come."

She turned on her back. Light from the streetlight shone through the thin curtains and he could barely see her face. "Why is it that question always sounds like an accusation? Like it's some affront to your manhood that I didn't come."

"I just wanted to know. If there's something I could do better...."

She shrugged, the slightest movement of her shoulders.

"I'm willing to try if you give me a chance. What can I do? What do you like?"

She was silent, staring at the ceiling.

"Look, just trust me a little. Tell me what I can do."

"Do you trust me?" she asked him.

"Sure I do. If I wanted something, I'd tell you."

"Yeah." Her voice had an edge of doubt. "You trust me."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"No reason. I was just asking." She turned her head to look at him and her face was in shadow. He could only see the glitter of her eyes. "I just wanted to know."

"Why?"

"I had an idea...." Her voice trailed off.

"What idea?"

"You wouldn't be into it." Her tone dismissed him.

He leaned forward, wishing he could see her expression. "Try me."

"I like knives," she said. She cast off the sheet and sat up suddenly, turning so that she faced him. She was naked, sitting Indian style on the rumpled sheets. "That's all. I like knives."

"What about knives?" he said hesitantly. "You want me to hold a knife or...."

"Oh, no." Her tone was amused -- how could he have misunderstood her so? "I hold the knife."

"You hold the knife?"

"Sure." She reached into a drawer in the bedside table, turning momentarily into the light. Her face was flushed, excited; her mouth a little open, her eyes bright. From the drawer, she took a knife. The blade was as long as his hand, curved slightly, like an erect cock. "This knife," she said.

He didn't move, watching her. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"What do you do with the knife?"

"Just hold it. I've never hurt anyone. Here -- feel it."

He held out his hand for the knife. She didn't hand it to him -- instead, she grasped his wrist with her other hand, warm skin against his, and rested the blade lightly against his wrist.

"It's cold against your skin, isn't it? It takes your warmth away. It takes your breath away." She stroked his wrist with the flat of the blade. "Go ahead and breathe. There's nothing to be afraid of." She stopped stroking his wrist and slowly turned the blade so that the edge rested against his skin. "Even now -- as long as you don't move, it won't hurt you."

After a moment, she lifted the blade away and released his wrist. The skin where the blade had rested tingled from the chill of the metal. His wrist was a study in heat and cold: hot where her hand had held him; cold where the blade had touched.

She watched him, the hand with the knife held loosely in her lap. She lifted the knife and touched one of her bare nipples with the flat of the blade. "I can feel the warmth of your skin in the blade. I like that."

With her free hand, she reached out and touched his leg, running her fingers up from the knee to the inner thigh. A delicate touch, so soft and tender. He shivered.

"You're cold," she said. "I can warm you up." Her fingers moved on his inner thigh, the back of her hand gently tickling his balls. "You know I can." She brought her legs together and shifted to a kneeling position beside him. Her hand cupped his balls, and the tips of her fingers caressed the sensitive spot just behind his balls.

He could still see the knife in her right hand. The blade glittered in the streetlight.

"Why knives?" he asked.

She laughed quietly. "You might as well ask why tigers have teeth, why scorpions sting. It just is." Still on her knees, she moved her leg so that she was straddling his thigh. She leaned in and kissed him, her tongue soft against his lips, darting into his mouth. Her hand squeezed his balls gently, then fondled his cock. Her fingers were warm and persuasive. His cock grew hard.

He kept his eyes on the knife. While she kissed him, the blade traced patterns in the air, catching the light and reflecting it onto the ceiling, the walls.

She sat up and glanced at his face. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said. "Don't you think so?"

Not waiting for an answer, she kissed his chest, sucking lightly on his nipple while her hand stroked his cock, moving up and down the shaft with increasing urgency. She moved against his leg, and he could feel the wetness of her crotch. He closed his eyes. A moment later, he felt the flat of the knife blade against his nipple. The warmth of her breath; the chill of the knife. He could feel the chill all the way down to his groin. He opened his eyes, looking up at her. The light was full on her face, her bare breasts. Her nipples were hard.

He reached up, meaning to lift the knife away from his body, but her hand stroked his stiff cock, and he reached for her breasts instead, caressing the warm flesh.

She smiled at him, shaking her head. "No," she said. "I told you: Don't move." With the flat of the blade, she pushed his hand away. "I'll move." She leaned closer, bringing her breast to his lips and he sucked on her nipple. She brought the blade back to his chest, and he felt the cold metal, but it no longer seemed important.

"That's right," she said. "Yeah, that's it."

She lifted the knife away from him and kissed the spot where the blade had rested, warming his skin. She slid her body down beside his and he felt her breath on his thigh. She kissed his balls, then ran her tongue up the hard shaft of his cock. She took the tip of his cock in her mouth.

"Oh, yeah," he moaned.

Her tongue circled the tip of his cock, each circle bringing a new level of sensation. He felt the chill of metal against the shaft of his cock, and the breath caught in his throat. But her tongue circled again, warm and urgent, pressing against the head of his cock. He tensed his thigh muscles, resisting the urge to lift his hips and push his cock deeper into her mouth. He felt the cold touch of steel on his belly. For a moment, she lifted her mouth away from his cock. "Don't move," she said.

"Please," he said. "Please."

She laughed and once again took his cock into her mouth, moving so that his cock was deep inside her, pressing against the warm wetness of her tongue, her throat. She had positioned herself so that his leg was between her thighs, and he could feel her wet cunt rubbing against him.

He could not move, he knew that. He ached to move, to grab her head and push his cock deeper into her throat, but he couldn't move. He felt the chill of the knife as she moved it to touch his ass, his thigh, his chest. He was afraid, but he could not move. He was afraid of the touch of the knife against his balls. Did he trust her? Why not? Did it matter? What mattered was the heat of her lips on his cock, her hand on his balls. The chill of the knife on his chest, his side. Her mouth moving faster, sucking him harder, again and again, with hot-lipped urgency. He moaned, trying to form a word. "Please....," but he didn't know what he was asking for. He knew nothing but the heat of her lips and the touch of her hand and the chill of the blade. "Please...."

She took his cock deep and he felt the chill of the knife against his balls as he came, frozen into stillness by the touch of the blade, his hands in fists at his side, moaning as she swallowed his hot cum.

He lay very still, feeling the sweat drying on his chest. She lifted the knife away. "You can move now," she said.