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.
I turned a little further, pushing her nose and mouth more firmly into my groin, my balls resting against the side of her chin, the side of my cock against the corner of her mouth, the shaft pressing into the hollow of her cheek. Letting go of her head, I stood perfectly still and waited to see how she would respond.
Mhairi and I had met at a youth group adventure weekend. She’d been asked to help with the cooking and the young women whereas I’d been asked to drive the van. Not wanting to sit in the van and read the paper all weekend, I’d agreed on the basis that I’d be able to kayak and sail, just like the young people. Alone in the changing room, I’d been almost completely naked when Mhairi had burst in, unaware that there would be any tall, fit adults on the premises. Ten years later, and we were still spending an evening a week together, give or take. At forty to my thirty eight, Mhairi was a classic redhead with the smooth pale skin, copper hair and freckles of the true Northerner. At 5’8” with a EE bust and hips to match, Ruebens and Titian would have fought to the death to paint her, no question.
Pulling her head back slightly, her mouth slack but with all her senses clearly on alert, Mhairi rubbed her cheek against my shaft. I laid my finger against the outer side of my cock and pressed it a little more firmly against her face. She turned towards the pressure and let my head slip into her open mouth. Sliding my fingers to the root of my shaft, I rolled the foreskin back and watched the purple head disappear between her lips. With a look of rapt concentration, Mhairi slid her mouth down me until my balls rested against her chin. Not appearing to move, I could feel her tongue and teeth working me, and see the muscles in her neck working.
I began to roll my hips, forcing her to let my cock slide in and out, the rhythmic movement slowly but surely coating my erection with her saliva. I pulled almost entirely out and then, my hands holding her head still, pushed all the way in.
“You want me to fuck your mouth, don’t you”, I muttered. She nodded, her mouth full of cock. Twining my fingers in her hair, I did indeed fuck her face. This was not fellatio, this was fucking. Hard, fast, deep, brutal. Breathing in gasps around my thrusting, Mhairi’s spittle ran down her chin, her hands fighting the ropes holding her in the chair. When I finally let go, she lurched back against the chair, gasping.
I was standing with one foot between hers, just wearing a dress shirt, my other clothes long since discarded. Mhairi, hair all over the place with saliva and precum dripping from her chin onto her substantial breasts, still wore her basque, thong and heels. I’d made her take off her skirt as soon as she stepped into my hallway, the front door still open. To be honest, I loved watching her walk ahead of me, those delicious arse cheeks moving in the most inviting way, the interplay of the muscles of her thighs and buttocks making me want to just bend her over there and then.
Her basque was silver, the kind you might wear to a nightclub as a top layer rather than underwear. I’d scooped her tits out of it, folding down the cups to create a balconette effect to show off her long coral pink nipples. Pushing her thighs a bit further apart, I knelt between her feet, my erection bumping against one inner thigh as I settled myself. I picked up the knife and rested it against her breast again. She knew what it was this time and inhaled sharply. Leaning in close, I whispered in her ear.
“I’m going to cut your knickers off and make you cum on this knife. Ok?” I muttered. I could feel her breath warm against my cheek. She didn’t move. “Okay?” I said again, more loudly. She nodded, mouth slack. Even after ten years of satisfying each other’s darker desires, it’s still possible to find the outer edge of trust. I smiled inwardly at the thought that she might be worried my knife skills might not be up to it. Award winning pastry chef and all that.
I ran the point of the shiv up the inside of her thigh, revelling in the way that she not only trembled at the sharp scr****g of the tip on her skin, but actually tried to move her thighs even further apart to get away from it. Flipping it over at the last minute, I pressed the handle against her slit, visible as a shiny moist line in the dim room. Rolling the knife in my fingers, I rubbed her clitoris with the very end of the black plastic. I’d presented the idea of the knife as if it were huge, where in actual fact it was a 3” paring blade, tiny against her leg, but scarily sharp.
I hooked my finger under the elastic strap of the thong and pressed the sharp edge against it. The cut ends sprang away from the blade, making Mhairi literally jump. Doing the same on the other hip, I took the ends of the elastic and pulled gently, the tightness across the small of her back just enough to urge her to shuffle forward until her entire mons was off the chair.
“Bottoms up!”, I said as I roughly jerked the strip of now very wet material from under her. She was so far back in the chair that it was getting difficult for her to lift her head. I pushed against her cheek to let her know it was alright to slump back, her throat taught and shiny in the low light, her breasts high and almost lifted from their cups. Holding the blade at the neck where it met the handle, pointing safely away from anything sensitive, I began to work it along the open cleft of her pussy. She began to breathe in gasps, the sound raw and rough.
“Ah!”, her whole body twitched as I twisted her nipple with my free hand. Her thighs were trembling with the effort of staying on the chair. I was pleased I’d made her put her neoprene cuffs on before I’d tied her wrists – neither of us wanted to explain any marks on her skin.
The end of the knife handle reached the base of the slot, pressing against her perineum. My fingertips holding the blade were bumping against her clitoris, slick with her juices. I ran my free hand over her breast, revelling in how they were so firm after two girls and forty years.
A woman of strong demonstrative orgasms, tonight was no exception. Grunting, convulsing, throwing herself forward in the chair, her forehead against my shoulder, her thighs clamped tight against my hips, her spasming cunt grinding against the knife trapped under her body.
She slumped against me for a minute or two, then relaxed back into the chair, wriggling her butt back onto the seat. I reached over and pulled her blindfold off. She grinned, her beautiful green eyes glittering with delight.
“Amazing!”, she said.