I like to think I’m not easily impressed by the contents of a person’s top drawer. Vibrators, dildos, cock rings, massage oil, lube, anal beads, strap-ons, hand cuffs, blindfolds – if I didn’t own it myself I had certainly seen it or experienced it.
But when S tells me he has knives in his top drawer, I am intrigued and more than a little excited.
Already this man had proven to be so much more than I would ever have guessed upon first meeting him. His body is a canvas of beautiful tattoos, a full beard, and a well-muscled bod. The first few times I saw him in the lift of my building, I was intimidated. He looked rebellious, worldly, fierce. I was to learn that beneath that seemingly tough exterior was a kind, generous and caring person.
The first time I saw him with his kids, I thought my ovaries were going to explode. The sight of a man with his children makes me sigh and quiver. There’s something extremely attractive about a man bonding with his children and being so in the moment. That’s how I always see S when he’s with his kids. I so admire it and I envy it.
And then we started to hang out, having wide-ranging conversations that seamlessly transitioned between hilarious, deep, philosophical, outrageous and kinky. I enjoyed talking to him, sharing stories of marriage and divorce, or dating and life. And the one time we’d ventured into the bedroom so far had been tantalising and frustrating and wickedly good.
“Knives?” I repeat.
“What do you do with knives? Please tell me you’re not a crazy psycho who likes to cut people?”
“No, I don’t cut people.”
“Well, what on earth do you do with them?”
“You want me to show you?”
What a question! I knew this guy, well at least I thought I did, but when someone says they have knives in their top drawer and we’d previously been talking about kinky sex things, it does make you pause.
But I wanted to know, desperately, because I love exploring new things in the bedroom. I love pushing my limits and finding new things that turn me on. I already knew S was into domination and choking. It made me wet wondering what he could do to me with knives.
“Show me,” I say.
In his apartment, I sit down on his bed. I am shaking with anticipation. I am already so attracted to this man, I start to wonder if I can even handle what he’s going to do.
He sits down next to me on the bed and pulls open the top drawer of his bedside table.
I lean over and see a selection of knives, none of which I could name. He pulls one out.
“This is a blah knife. It’s not sharp, see?” He holds it out to me and indicates I should feel its edge.
“But what do you do with it?” I ask again.
“Lay down,” he tells me.
I lay back on the bed. My body is tingling with adrenalin. He pulls out a length of thin, grey cord, like rope but more satin, and starts tying a loop in one end. I can’t help myself and make a joke about Fifty Shades of Grey.
“That movie is bullshit,” he says. “They don’t do anything hard-core. They talk it up like it’s so violent but it’s nothing like that.
“What do you expect? It’s mummy porn. Those types of women would die if they saw real BDSM.”
He finishes tying the cord, loops it around my wrist and starts on the other.
I’m lying in the middle of the bed, the cord dangling limply from my wrist but my body is full of tension. Whatever this is, I want it badly.
With both my wrists looped, he pulls the cord on my right arm and yanks it back towards the wooden bedhead. He crouches over me to peer behind it.
“What you got back there? Hooks or something?”
“Exactly,” he says, tying off the loose end to an invisible hold.
“Oh my god, do you really? I was joking.”
He ties off my other hand to the hook behind me and to my left and sits back to admire his handiwork.
Caught by my wrists, my arms are pinned out and away from my body, pulled back towards the bedhead. I am wet with anticipation.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now I show you what these knives are for.”
He holds one up for me to see and then lowers it towards my left hand.
“Yes,” I whisper.
With the point of the knife still against my skin, he slides it up my arm, moving its edge lightly over me towards my shoulder.
He’s taking fast, shallow breaths and I can see that he’s shaking.
He moves the knife across my collarbone to the base of my throat. I almost stop breathing, not because I’m fearful, but because I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I want to see how far he’ll go. How close he’ll take the knife’s sharp edge to my throat and how much pressure he’ll exert.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
In response, I arch my back as far as my wrist bindings allow and moan. He moves the knife down over my bra, between my breasts. I’m quivering with excitement. I never want it to end.
“So, that’s what I do with knives,” he says, bringing me back to the bed beneath me. He leans over and cuts the cord with the knife he’s just been running across my body. He severs the cord on my other hand and I’m free.
“What else have you got in that drawer?”
“Haha, well, it’s not in the drawer, but I have a whip.”
He leaps lightly from the bed and moves to his wardrobe and pulls out a black sports bag.
From it he pulls a thin black whip, like a riding crop. It’s about 50cm long with a small, square piece of leather at one end.
“Does it hurt? I mean, I like to be spanked but I’ve never used a whip.”
“It doesn’t hurt me. Here use it on me.”
The whip is light and I swish it through the air like I’m casting a spell in a Harry Potter movie.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. Here, hit my back.”
He lays face down across the bed next to me, his arms folded for him to rest his face in.
Holding the whip tentatively, I caress his smooth, tattooed back with the leather piece.
“Hit me,” he orders.
I lift my arm and bring the plastic shaft of the whip down on his back. It makes a small thwack noise and I know I’ve done it wrong.
“Try and only have the leather piece touch me,” he instructs. “Keep the shaft high and away from the skin.”
I raise my arm and concentre on only hitting his back with the leather tip. It makes a delightful crack.
“That’s it,” he says. He’s shaking.
I practice my technique a few more times over his beautiful back. It really is lovely to look at.
“Your turn,” he tells me, taking the whip from my hand and ordering me to lay back on the bed. He peels my sodden undies down my legs and casts them to the floor. With one hand he holds my knee to the side while the other holds the whip at the ready.
He brings the leather down on the top of my cunt, over my clit, and I shudder. It doesn’t hurt a bit but the deliciousness of it is having an impact.
“You like that, don’t you? You like me whipping your pussy?”
I’m a sucker for dirty talk so even without the whipping I would have moaned like I did now.
“Yes, more,” I whisper. He brings the whip down over me and I recoil in pleasure but he holds tightly to my knee, forcing my legs to stay apart.
My cunt is glistening and he’s shaking as he leans down to lick at me.
Like a dog after a long walk with a bowl of water, he licks at me, darting his tongue in my sweet hole. His beard is buried between my legs. I moan loudly and hold his head in place against me.
He teases my clit with his tongue and when I moan, he moans into me, the sound muffled by my pussy lips. My body is betraying me and starting to shudder as my orgasm builds. My convulsions are propelling me backwards on the bed until my head is almost hanging over the side.
He grabs me by the hips and pulls me back towards his face, eating me like a child licking crumbs off a plate. It’s not the first time he’s gone down on me but it is the first time it’s happened after being held at knife point and I’m aching for release.
The louder I moan, the louder he becomes. I start to come, feeling that familiar squeeze deep inside my pussy. I know that if I can slow my breathing and focus only on what’s happening between my legs, I can come.
But he won’t be. It would be the second time we’d fooled around while high. I wanted his cock inside me badly but it wasn’t going to happen that night. I came loudly and felt my body release.
“Grrrooah, I want to fuck you so badly. Fuck, why do we keep doing this high?”
He rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the doona. I laugh lightly to let him know it’s OK and run my hands down and over his back. He shakes violently. I straddle him, my wet cunt slick against his lower back, and run both hands down either side of his spine. My gold sparkly nails draw white lines on his skin that are immediately replaced as the blood flows back and then dance them like a spider down along his ribs.
He is shaking and sucking in deep breaths. I run my hands through his short-cropped hair, pressing my fingertips into his scalp, massaging them down his neck. The more I touch him, the more he shakes and I can see his frustration is building.
“I want to fuck you so bad.”
“And I want you to fuck me. But it’s all good. Another time.”
And that’s my cue to go. I find my undies and pull them back on. He’s still cranky at himself.
“Dude, it’s cool. It’s OK.”
My bra is still on and I slip my dress over my head.
“I can’t believe I showed you my knives,” he says.
“Really? After everything we’ve talked about and told each other?”
“Yeah, I know. Fuck, I wish I could fuck you.”
“Next time.” I smile and kiss him goodbye and walk out of his apartment without a backward glance.
I had a crush on S for a long time after that night and I may have even called it love. I knew I had to give it up after a group of us spent a weekend together in the vineyards, wine tasting and eating and laughing. Everyone else in our group was coupled up and S and I were the odd ones out. It would have been very natural for us to hook up; we were already sharing a room if not a bed. And if it was meant to be, that’s the weekend it should have happened. But it didn’t. We shared no more than a hug, no more than a seat on the bus. It was after that weekend that I knew I had to give him up because it was hurting me to spend time around him, wondering if he liked me.
But I wasn’t able to actually tell myself I was done until a few weeks after that. We were out for breakfast and in walked S with a young woman that he’d been casually seeing and it was apparent that she’d stayed the night. It surprised me because S had always said he never let women stay the night. Now, seeing her, I realised that what he had actually been telling me all those times was that I wasn’t welcome to stay the night because he didn’t feel that way about me. And that’s OK, because not everyone in this world is going to like me and not every man is going to want a relationship. And so it was with S and I.
And somehow, he treated me kindly despite my feelings for him. He didn’t lead me on, made no false promises or say words he didn’t mean. Now I am blessed to be able to call him my friend and I’m grateful that he was able to preserve our friendship where I would have run away.