Kiss the blade
The dream came to her in fragments, like shards of light cutting through darkness. She could feel it before she could see it: the cool weight of the knife in her hand, the faint metallic tang in the air. It was a feeling, an itch, a want that nestled deep in her chest and refused to be ignored.
She had never done it, not really. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to. The thought alone was enough to send a low, throbbing heat through her body—a mix of fear, curiosity, and something darker. But in her dreams, there was no hesitation. In her dreams, she would trace the blade’s edge with her lips, feel its smoothness against her skin, and let it hover at the precipice of danger.
She pictured it now, lying in her bed with the blanket kicked to the side. Her eyes were closed, but her mind raced, painting vivid images in the quiet darkness of her room. The knife wasn’t just a tool; it was an object of reverence, a vessel for control, surrender, and something deeply primal. In her thoughts, the blade shimmered with possibility—both of harm and restraint, of crossing lines and stepping back from them.
“Would it feel cold?” she wondered, her fingers tracing the curve of her own lips. She imagined holding the knife carefully, reverently, as though it were alive in her hands. The blade would catch the light, its sharp edge whispering promises she didn’t dare articulate. Her tongue would hover near it, testing the air, before retreating again. That’s what she always did in her dreams: hovered and lingered, never crossing the line. Never daring to press her flesh against steel.
But oh, how she wanted to. The thought alone made her thighs press together, her breathing shallow. It wasn’t about pain; it never was. It was about the idea of surrendering to an object so precise, so indifferent. The knife didn’t care if she kissed it or not. It didn’t need her attention, but that only made her want to give it more. To let her lips graze the blade’s edge, to feel the coolness it promised, and then to pull away just as quickly—safe, untouched, but changed.
“Am I crazy?” she asked herself, her voice a whisper in the still room. She had read enough to know she wasn’t alone in these thoughts. Kink, desire, the edges of what was taboo and what wasn’t—it was all a part of the human experience. But this felt different. It wasn’t about anyone else. There was no partner in these fantasies, no dominant figure holding the knife for her. It was just her and the blade, a private ritual she had built entirely in her mind.
She shifted in bed, her body restless against the cool sheets. Her hand drifted to her neck, where she imagined the flat side of the blade resting, a firm but gentle pressure reminding her to stay still. Her breath hitched at the thought. She could almost feel it now, the way her skin would prickle with anticipation. The edge would never cut—it didn’t need to. The sensation alone was enough to bring her to the edge of something she didn’t quite understand.
“Just once,” she thought, her eyes still closed. “Just to see what it’s like.” But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Not in waking life. The blade was too sharp, the risk too real. The fantasy lived in its distance, in the safety of never acting on it. To touch the blade in reality might ruin the magic of it. It might make the dream fade, and she wasn’t ready to lose it.
Her hand moved to her chest, fingers splaying over her collarbone as she let herself sink deeper into the fantasy. In her mind, she saw herself holding the knife again, her lips parting as she brought it closer. The blade hovered, a heartbeat away, and she could feel its presence as though it had its own pulse. Her tongue darted out to taste the air near it, and her body shivered at the imagined cold.
“It’s just a thought,” she reminded herself, her voice softer now, almost reverent. But the thought was everything. It was the thrill of restraint, the power of almost but not quite. It was the way her mind lingered on the blade’s edge without ever crossing it. She didn’t need to act on it to feel its power; the fantasy was enough to light her skin on fire and leave her breathless.
As her body calmed, the images in her mind began to fade, dissolving into the haze of sleep. She didn’t need to hold the knife to feel its weight. She didn’t need to kiss it to know its coolness. In the quiet of her room, her dreams would always keep her close to the edge, letting her hover there, wanting and safe, forever untouched.
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