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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: hallow06.txt (MF, F-solo, voy)
Authors name: Averti (anonymus+422@godiva.nectar.cs.cmu.edu)
Story title : Knife
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Knife (MF, F-solo, voy)
by Averti (anonymus+422@godiva.nectar.cs.cmu.edu)
October 1992
***
A little gift creeping out of the notebook, perverts and
pervettes... this didn't happen, of course, but it could
have... and it still might.
She unhooked her skirt and dropped it to the floor. She
sat on the edge of the table and looked at me. She wore
no panties. She had removed her pubic hair, for the
first time I could remember. The smooth, almost shiny
new expanse of bare skin looked slightly startled, like
some cave dweller suddenly brought into the light.
She reached behind her and took out a small knife. The
indirect lamplight gleamed on the curved blade and
darkly figured wooden handle. "Do you know this knife?"
she asked, turning it in her fingers.
"Yes. I made that knife."
"Indeed you did."
"How did you come by it? The owner was a witch--"
She smiled coldly, "A witch who was murdered. But not
with this knife."
I returned her fixed gaze. "I know that."
"I KNOW you know it. You were there, the next day,
right? You walked in her dried blood, you picked through
her stuff..."
All this was true, but beside the point. "Where did YOU
get the knife?"
"Bought it off a fence who bought it off the Sausalito
cop who kiped it from the crime scene..."
She trailed the point of the knife idly down one thigh
and back up the other. The knife left a very, very thin
scratch quite clear on her smooth tan skin.
I felt like I was in the wrong story. "What do you
want?" I was compelled to ask.
"I want things to be like they were. I want you to look
at me. Watch me, the way you used to. I want you to
crawl over here on your knees and jerk off onto my toes.
I want to be glued to the wall, with you drilling into
me, as I turn myself inside out for you. I want you to
sit in the corner and cry while I masturbate for you--AT
you--until my pussy is one raw glowing mess!"
I wished I still smoked. I needed a cigarette to fiddle
with, so my hands and their obvious shaking wouldn't
give me away. I had loved, if that's the right
approximate word, this woman for a generation. I knew
she was totally self-centered and totally ruthless and
absolutely no more to be trusted than the senior lioness
in a circus act.
I stood against the wall, near the door, like a dummy,
watching her, trying very hard not to stare, staring
very hard. She manipulated the little knife in the air
with one skillful hand while beginning to feel and tease
between her legs with the other. I wondered if it really
were possible to dislocate one's eyes just from avid
staring...I hated myself for knowing every inch and
millimeter of that pussy. I could paint a picture of it,
sculpt a replica of it, if I could knit I could knit a
pussy afghan of it. I knew it when it was young, when it
was dry, when it was wet, when it was swollen with lust,
pried apart by the hands of other women, stuffed full of
dildos, vibrators, vegetables... everything except how
it felt to fuck.
"There's some kind of definitive orgasm inside me," she
said wildly." If I can't tease it out I'll DRAG it out."
She took the small knife and made a neat four-inch
incision in the perfect skin of her lower belly, just
above the start of the white, hairless pubic area. Dark,
rich-looking blood welled and then began to trickle down
toward the meeting of her thighs.
"That's why I shaved," she said. "Much easier to see.
Much neater."
"All the best surgeons do it that way," I murmured,
dreamily watching the blood ooze downward.
She took a fresh grasp on the knife and made another
incision parallel to and below the first, and then yet
another. They were not dangerously deep, I could tell;
no possibility of suddenly seeing escaping lower
intestines. I leaned against the wall, next to the door,
and just kept watching. Her facial expression hadn't
changed one iota since she began cutting. Still the same
beautiful mask, full mouth, dark eyes, a general
expression of knowing something that nobody else knows.
She dabbled her free hand in her crotch, which by now
was thoroughly soaked in blood, then raised the hand to
her face and licked delicately at it like a cat.
"Mmmm, I like getting REALLY in touch with myself," she
smiled. Rather ghastly with her own blood on her lips.
"A woman should be free to choose the time and place to
bleed..."
I was pretty sure that those superficial slashes would
begin to clot over before long. I watched as she slid
backwards into the center of the table, leaving a dark
brownish-red smear as she went. She opened her legs and
showed me her naked, gleaming vulva. Looked quite
striking, actually, but, to me, less erotic than
exploitative.
She held the little knife delicately and made several
minor cuts along the edges of her labia majora, saying,
"Blood goes to blood," and then groaning, not in pain
but in lust. The knife clattered as she threw it
carelessly onto the floor. Then she began to use both
hands between her legs, shifting and moaning and drawing
hissing breaths as I had seen her do a thousand times
before, as though the blood were just some new kinky
love lube you could buy in an overpriced plastic squeeze
bottle.
I watched for a minute more. Out of context, this would
have been transfixing. Cheap as it felt, for me, it was
more like watching a former friend get very drunk and
wrap her car around a median pole. I lowered my eyes,
and then turned toward the door.
"Wait!! Where--" she hissed, in a strangled voice that I
knew so well. Again. not pain, but lust for self. Lust
for control. Even over mere me, the one-time easiest to
control of them all.
"Thanks for the show, babe. But I haven't paid for the
E-ticket, and it looks like the big ride is almost under
way."
"YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME NOW!!" masturbating faster, like
somebody trying to get their stalled car on the railroad
tracks started by sheer will power.
"I won't. I left you eleven months ago. You weren't
paying attention. Anyway," I opened the door, "You're
the one with the imagination. Just imagine I'm still
here--sitting in the corner, watching and drooling--the
imaginary me always cooperated better, anyway..."
I closed the door and made for the elevator. I had never
felt so good about leaving a room containing a naked,
bloody, sex-crazed woman. I was pretty sure she'd be all
over herself with towels and antiseptic and bandages in
a minute.
As the elevator doors closed I heard this long, eerie
howl, the capstone to an hour of blood and horror. Other
people must have heard it too; but I was the only one
who knew that it was not a werewolf or a vampire and any
such common wretch. Only I knew that it was the enraged,
frustrated cry of a first-rate witch having a second-
rate orgasm.
*
Well, happy Halloween, little friends...and if you
should find yourself gazing lustfully at the
knife...well, one can always make more blood, they
say...
Averti
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 16