Me and A Knife

My keys hit the hardwood floor before I see him. The sound is a sharp and metallic that echoes through my apartment. I barely have time to inhale before fabric drops over my head and the world disappears. My mouth opens to shout, but something thick presses in, muffling my scream. I taste the cloth. My pulse detonates.

I stumble back. The wall catches me before I fall, or maybe he does. His arms lock around me. Strong and efficient. He's not rushed.

I struggle on instinct. My elbows and shoulders twist, heels scraping against the floor. My back hits the wall again, breath knocked momentarily from my lungs.

His grip isn't frantic. It isn't clumsy. It's control. My wrists are pulled together, lifted high, and something tightens around them. My arms are pulled up and looped over the iron wall hook by the door, the one I use for my bag.

He steps back in silence. No words. No reassurance.

It's him. It has to be Daddy. His scent seems familiar, clean soap with something darker, musky underneath. The heat of him at my back feels like I know him and his movements. My heart begins to slow briefly. But then it explodes again.

He hasn't spoken. He always speaks. Say something! The quiet stretches on too long. My stomach drops. What if it isn't him? The thought sinks in like cold water down my spine.

I strain against the binds to test them. They don't give.

Did I close the curtains this evening? I changed in the bedroom with the lamp on. I walked home last week, and that guy at the corner asked for my number. I laughed and kept walking. Did he follow me? Did I even check behind me?

My hands flex uselessly above my head. The hood presses against my eyes. I can't see anything. My world is fabric and breath, stretched thin on this wall, and the rhythm of my own pulse.

A hand slides down my side. Firm. Exploring.

It's him, I know it. No stranger would move like that. No stranger would know exactly how to pin my hips with one forearm and keep my balance steady like that.

But he still hasn't said a word.

My mind fractures. I remember dust floating in a barn loft, sunlight cutting through wooden slats. The smell of hay and summer sweat. I was skipping chores, reckless and young. My friend, home from college, grinning curious as she taunted, "I know what your book doesn't know," and pinned me hard against rough wood. Hands where they shouldn't have been, tugging at a seam until it tore. I remember feeling the rip. The shock of cool air on skin. The way my stomach flipped between fear and something sweeter.

I didn't even mind that much, except the bitch tore my dress.

The memory burns and then dissolves as hands return to me. Real. Present. Cold air brushes my thighs. I feel my skirt drop.

Then something colder. Metal slides along the fabric at my panties, not cutting me, just testing.

My stomach flips violently. My legs tense.

The metal traces the inside of my leg, barely touching.

A knife. This is wrong. My heart feels like it will break through my chest, as I close my eyes tight under the mask. I brace for what might come next.

The knife slides under the thin fabric between my legs. I shudder as the cool metal touches me. Then there's a quick, clean slice. My panties part and fall away. The air feels colder against my bare cunt.

I make a sound into the gag, small and broken.

He steps in close behind me. I feel the heat of his chest and the firm line of his body against mine.

My breathing turns shallow. I pull at the restraints, harder now. The hook holds firm. My wrists burn.

He doesn't stop me. Doesn't soothe me. Doesn't speak.

Then something unexpected happens. For one blinding moment, I think he's going to tighten the restraints.

He presses the handle into my bound palms. For that split second, I don't understand. Then I feel it. He folds my fingers around it. He guides my hands just enough to close around the handle, then he lets go.

The knife. My mind goes silent. It's mine now. It's mine.

I flex my fingers. The blade shifts slightly. Real. Solid. If he were a stranger, he would never have given me this. No one gives up the weapon. My fingers tighten around the grip. My knuckles ache.

If I have it, he doesn't. The thought anchors me as I clutch it tighter.

What if this is a game. Maybe he's certain I can't use it. Maybe he wants me to feel safe but terrified at the same time.

He steps behind me again. A hand slides over my hip, holding me deliberately. Claiming.

I hold the knife tighter.

Behind me now, both hands return. One at my waist. One sliding over my stomach, still steady and intentional. My body trembles. Is this trust? Is this a game inside a game?

My body reacts before my brain decides. Heat pools low in my stomach. My pulse climbs into my throat. Fear and something else twist until I can't separate it.

He moves with deliberate pressure. His cock rubbing against the crease of my ass, thick and insistent through his open fly. Every shift of his hips grinds him along my bare skin, teasing. I feel the slick heat between my thighs. My cunt clenches, aching, wet despite my fear.

I fight at first. My thighs tense, hips trying to pull away. His fingers slip between my legs. I slip out a muffled whimper as his fingers part my lips just enough to discover my secret, how ready my cunt is. My hips jerk forward involuntarily.

Then with a long breath, I stop my fight. If I have it, he doesn't. I have to keep his eyes looking down and away.

My ass tilts back, my body inviting, where my mind doesn't follow.  

He notches the head of his cock inside me and pushes in slow. One thick inch at a time. My cunt stretches around him. Gripping him tight, and clenching as he fills me. The burn is sweet. Perfect. I feel him throbbing inside me.

He begins to fuck me with steady, deep strokes that drag along my insides. Wet slapping fills the room, my juices coating his cock. My wrists ache from pulling against the hook, but the knife in my grip still anchors me, it makes the surrender mine.

My cunt tightens, fluttering on edge. His fingers rub my clit, circling with a firm pressure. It's all too much. I can't hold it. I break hard, my cunt pulsing around his cock. I squeeze hard to stop it, but the pull is even sweeter. I let out a muffled moan soaking the gag as the orgasm crashes through me.

He follows only a moment later, buried deep and coming with a groan into my neck, hot pulses flooding my cunt.

We stay locked together, his cock still twitching inside me. My body is limp and spent and full.

It feels like forever.

His hand grips the side of my throat. His thumb lands right where my pulse jumps, and then squeezes gently.

My entire body shakes.

He holds, three beats, then release. Just like he always does. His lips brush my ear. "Breathe," he whispers.

The word breaks me. Relief crashes through my chest so violently my knees give out. I sag into the restraints, laughing and sobbing at the same time through the gag.

It's him. It was always him.

"Still holding it," he whispers.

I nod weakly. "If I have it..." I say through the gag, but it comes out thick and muffled.

He gently takes the knife from my finger tips and sets it to the side. His hand moves to the back of my neck, holding me steady.  

"You did well. Good girl."

I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.