9. Githany #2
The tapered handle is about half the length of the curved, slender blade.
My palm has worn the wood smooth from years of relentless grip.
Spitting on the handle, I slide it between Githany’s trembling hips.
It disappears inside her cunt, leaving the eight-inch blade jutting outward.
Pinching the tip of the blade between my fingertips, I work it slowly in and out of her, casually checking the handle until a significant amount of her own arousal drips out around it. I need her very wet for this.
Githany stirs, but doesn’t wake. Her eyelids flutter as I slip the handle of my cimeter alongside the boning knife.
Neither handle is overly large, but side by side they cause a decent amount of stretching.
The cimeter’s curved blade stretches several inches farther than the boning knife.
The muscles of Githany’s lower abdomen pulse when I slide the two in tandem, in and out, stroking until her wetness puddles on the table.
The smallest moan sings out of her. She’s starting to come around.
Excitement spurs me to choose something even larger next.
The rectangular blade of my meat cleaver winks up at me.
The handle of this piece is far thicker than the others.
Gripping the other two blades to hold them in place, I slide the cleaver handle in above the others, maneuvering it to seek out the sensitive spot along Githany’s inner wall.
She groans, her core shuddering. Still, her eyes remain closed. I was certain the stretch and depth of the cleaver would wake her up.
The smallest of my knives, the paring blade, catches my eye. It’s merely a few inches from handle to tip. Perfect for what I have in mind.
Spit covers the petite knife as I suck it in and out of a mouth that’s already begun shifting. Once I’m satisfied it’s been thoroughly lubricated, I slip it beneath Githany and straight into her ass.
She gasps, her whole body jerking as she lurches awake. The chains rattle with her attempts to sit up.
“What the hell. Where am I? Wh—what is…” Her movements halt. I soak up the sight of her, the widening of those brown eyes as she registers the foreign intrusions wedged into her holes.
Her gaze finally meets mine. Her unspoken question burning up at me.
“Knives,” I answer smoothly.
“Knives?” Her tone pitches with panic. The sweet scent of fear wafts over me.
“Just the handles, ghost girl. I’m not interested in carving up that pretty pussy just yet.”
Githany tries to look down, but the chains limit her mobility. She doesn’t get the same view I do. All four knives glisten, blades sticking outward, turning her pussy into a fucking weapon.
“Unchain me,” she demands, voice rough.
“No.”
Her face reddens. “Unchain me. Now.”
She flinches as I flip the filet knife out of my belt and up into the air. “You are awfully pushy for someone in such a precarious situation.”
Her wary gaze is fixed on the knife’s impressively sharp blade.
“Front or back?” I offer.
“Fuck you.” She actually spits.
I lower the blade, weighing my options. Githany thrashes and gasps. Her body stills again.
“Be careful, sweetheart. You might cut yourself.”
The logistics of adding a new knife while avoiding the other blades leaves me with only the front hole as an option. Pity. I was looking forward to stretching her backside a little more.
Githany releases a deep sound of shock as the fifth knife handle is inserted inside her.
She is most certainly feeling the stretch now.
“Unchain me,” she says again, though a bit wobbly this time.
“I’ll unchain you. First, I want to watch you orgasm.”
She gapes at me. “I can’t come with knives inside me.”
“You better hope you can. Otherwise you’re stuck here. Might not want to debate your choices for too long. I suspect Hunt and Madness will make their way here soon enough.”
Githany’s gaze flicks to the door. A new layer of sweet-and-sour fear melts off of her and onto my eager tongue. She’s scared of them. It’s the perfect leverage. I lean into it.
“It won’t be good for you if they find you immobilized and stuffed with knives. After hunting so long they’ll have lost most of their control. When they burst through that door, they’ll be nothing more than mindless beasts.”
Her gaze ping-pongs between me and the door. “How am I supposed to come like this?”
Ignoring her question, I push her fear further. “I like to think they’ll remove the knives before they fuck you…but I can’t guarantee it.”
Her lip trembles. “You can’t let them do that.”
She can’t see the smile beneath my mask, but it’s a mile wide. I’ve got her right where I want her. “Come for me, and I’ll make sure they don’t have the chance. And, since I’m a gentleman, I’ll help you out.”
Removing my gloves is refreshing. Without the thick black fabric, I can feel the warmth and softness of Githany’s skin. My fingertips trail across one breast, stopping to circle a nipple. Her eyes fall shut for a moment before shooting open again.
I choose a slow path, down her chest and stomach, my touch growing firmer the lower I descend. By the time I trace my finger through her dark thatch of hair, she’s squirming.
A mix of moans and whimpers saturate the humid air. Her clit is hot and engorged when my touch finally lands there.
One firm press against the throbbing nub and Githany’s voice cracks into a scream.
I hold the pressure. “You’re going to come around these knife handles.
If I’m not satisfied with your performance, you’ll come again, and again.
If you try to fake an orgasm to get out of this situation, I’ll stab you in the thigh and then still make you come for me. Understood?”
She stares at me, assessing the level of truth in my words. Whatever she sees in my posture convinces her that going along with my plan is in her best interest. “Fine.”
I circle her clit, alternating between light and firm pressure. Fresh arousal spills onto the table as her hips writhe.
“Pathetic.”
“I’m not pathetic,” she grits out.
“No? You’re turned on by this. Being stuffed with knives and at the mercy of a butcher.”
“Shut up,” she volleys, whisper-soft.
“There’s something very wrong with you, Githany.”
“Shut up.”
“If you come, it will prove everything I’ve said. That you’re not right. That you’re more fucked up than you’ve ever let yourself dare imagine.”
“I’m not,” her stubborn tone dissolves into a murmur as I switch to my thumb.
“Haven’t you stopped to consider why you’re covered in blood?”
Githany peers down. Her skin is all blue except for a small patch on her ribs. Blood covers a majority of her body. “That’s not mine.”
“You’ve done some very unsavory things.”
She gasps when I adjust the handle of the filet knife, rubbing it upwards with short, deep flicks of my wrist.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Githany simpers, on the edge of tears.
“Why not? You don’t like it? It doesn’t feel good? If you lie, I’ll slice your hip.”