I touched the tip of the knife to her breast, just below the nipple. If she moved suddenly, any cut would be hidden once she put a bra on. I pressed more firmly, the sharp edge pressing into but not actually cutting her skin. She breathed in sharply but didn’t move.
To be fair, she couldn’t move far. The beauty of a maternity chair is that not only is it quite low, to allow the user’s thighs to angle upward to support the infant, the raked back encourages the user to lean back, making it actually quite hard to lean forward or wriggle in the seat.
“What the hell is that?”, Mhairi squealed. Her voice was high pitched, edged with worry, trying not to sound scared.
“Well, it’s a knife, obviously”, I said, chuckling. “Try not to thrash about too much, you don’t want to cut yourself”. I sat back on my haunches and gazed at her. She looked like she was about to start crying. Her lower lip was quivering ever so slightly, her breathing was fast and a tiny bit ragged.
“Stop!”, she said. She spoke firmly and clearly, putting on her best nursery nurse’s tone, trying to control things. Her breathing slowed as she tried to look a bit more confident, although she gave herself away by churning her wrists round and round against the rope.
“Look Mhairi, I’ll stop when I’m ready”, I replied. “You didn’t even try to agree a safe word, so you’re going to have to go with it tonight. You come over in what looks like just a skirt, thong and basque. You let me take off your skirt, tie you to the maternity chair and blindfold you. From where I’m sitting, you were asking for it. So try not to struggle – you don’t want your husband to think you cut yourself”. That’s when she started crying properly.
“You bastard!”, she yelled. The first slap stopped the noise, the second intensified the snivelling. Tears appeared from under the blindfold, along with a little string of snot. I let her bawl for a few minutes before bringing her back to the matter at hand. Taking her hair in my fist, I gently but firmly pulled her head back and encouraged her to rest her face against my hip. Her shoulders shook for a while as she cried, but she eventually calmed.
What she couldn’t see was that although she had the comforting warmth of my body through the material of my shirt, now damp with her tears, I wasn’t wearing anything else. My by now very erect cock was only millimeters from her face. With her breathing now back to normal, I turned my hips ever so slightly, my trimmed pubes crinkly against her cheek. She pretty much stopped breathing. Although I was still supporting the back of her neck, her head now took on a sort of questing posture, like she was looking for something. I got the distinct impression of a prey a****l scenting a predator.