Cutting Edge
Published by:
Nanette Littlestone at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Nanette Littlestone
Cover Art: Nanette Littlestone
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The blade was so sharp I didn’t feel the cut, only the pulse of crimson from the thin stripe across my wrist. I stared at Michael, sweet Michael, this man who was my friend, my lover, my husband.
“Why did you do that?” Fat beeswax candles lined the bedroom along the fireplace, bedside tables, bookshelves. His insane action spoiled the romantic mood.
He held up the six-inch knife, the one knife he owned that until now had been a museum piece. Blood smeared the intricate Damascus steel. I watched him place the blade on his tongue, draw it slowly across, the edges of flesh curving around metal, capturing every drop. The gleam in his eyes made me shudder.
I thought I knew him.
“Why did you do that?” I asked again, looking once more at the slash of red, bright against the whiteness of my skin.
“You’re mine now,” he said, the words quiet, solemn, filled with a religious intensity. He took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the knife, slow, reverent strokes, then he sheathed the blade in its leather holder.
I didn’t understand. We were pledged to each other. A promise made nine months ago, given in love and happiness. “I was yours before.”
The wild gleam was still in his eyes. “Not before. But now.” He leaned toward me and placed his mouth over my wound, licking, sucking, forcing more blood to the surface. A leap of desire echoed in my veins.
The next morning I examined my wound. A thin red line creased my wrist, white around the edges. Dried blood crusted at either end. A faint shock charged my system as I applied a clean bandage and antiseptic.
Michael came into the kitchen while I was cooking oatmeal. “Such a good little wife,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.
Prior to the incident I would have smiled at his remark. Now it seemed to contain hidden secrets. “Would you like some cereal?” I focused on the simple task of stirring.
“Thanks, but I have to run. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t forget we have that dinner with Meg and Jim.”
I nodded and spooned thick porridge into a blue enamel bowl, topped it with brown sugar and raisins and cream. The heavy mixture eased my confusion.
Michael helped himself to my spoon and my cereal. Bits of gray paste lingered on the edge of his lips. “Good,” he said, “but not as good as you.” He kissed me and transferred the gluey substance to my lips.
I stared in shock, unable to wipe my mouth. Michael did not share his food, his eating utensils, his drinking glass. God forbid he should have to borrow a toothbrush. And our bedside tables were stocked with a full supply of condoms.
“Well, gotta go. Love you.” He lifted my right arm and kissed my wrist. My injured wrist.
I jerked back.
“Take care of this,” he said, his mouth moist and hot on my wound. “I’ll be back at seven.”
My body answered with a shiver. An arousing shiver.
When he left I leaned my head on my arms. Had some alien virus infected his body? My body? Was I in the throes of some strange metamorphosis?
A shrill ring cut the stillness. I looked across the room at the telephone. My kitchen. My telephone. It wasn’t me, just a weird morning.
I shook my head to rid the crazy imaginings and said hello to Meg. “Michael and I were just talking about your party.”
“Could you bring dessert? I know this is last minute but it doesn’t have to be fancy. Just a cake or some cookies. My oven conked out and the repairman won’t be here for another two hours.”
Food. Heavenly baking smells. Something to keep me busy. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“You’re an angel, Karen. Thanks so much. I’ll see you later.”
I looked at the clock. Plenty of time to whip up a dessert, soak in a hot bath, and get dressed for an evening of good food and pleasant company.
Meg kissed my cheek in the kitchen. “I can’t thank you enough.” She bent close to the chocolate pound cake and sniffed. “This smells divine. I think I’ll stand here and eat till I’m full.”
“It’s a really simple recipe. Your standard pound cake with some cocoa.”
“Well, regardless, I owe you.” She put her hand on my right wrist and squeezed.
I winced.
“Karen, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just a little accident in the kitchen.”
“Don’t you hate that? You either have dull knives that won’t cut a thing, or sharp ones that go through you and everything else.”
Michael pulled me into the dining room. “Enough with Meg, already. I want to show you off. You’re the best-looking woman here.” He placed a soft kiss on my neck.
He exaggerated. Meg’s thick black curls outshone my straight brown locks and Janice’s 38D beat every woman there. Still, I said, “Thank you,” and meant it.
“I’ll be watching you tonight,” he said. Jim led him away, presumably off to the den to watch football. Even my looks couldn’t compete with the game.
I passed the time chatting, sampling the buffet, and sneaking furtive looks at the scab on my wrist. The memory of that night replayed in my mind. The gleam of metal, the drops of blood, his mouth on my arm, tasting, drinking, and the thrill in my body, the unexpected response. I drew in a ragged breath and looked around, ashamed of my thoughts, ashamed that I could have such feelings.
“There you are.” Michael slipped up from behind and put his arms around me. I leaned back into his warmth and smiled. Such a gentleman. Kind, courteous, even romantic. Everything a woman would want.
“It’s a nice party,” I said, just wanting to relax into his strength.
Soft kisses moved along my neck up to my ear. “Some of the guys aren’t feeling that well. I think there might be something going around work. What do you say I take you home?” His warm breath tickled my skin.
“It’s still early. Are you sure you want to leave now?”
He turned me to face him. “I’m sure.”
The dark eyes, the deep voice. I felt that lick of desire again. “I’ll just get my things.”
I waited in my favorite white silk gown, the one from our honeymoon. Michael emerged from the bathroom, naked, and stood in front of the bed. My heart tripped and stumbled and settled into an uneasy thumping. He never began nude. We wore pajamas, like old married couples. I often longed for the freedom of nudity, but I went along with his tradition.
In his hands he held a silk scarf. Navy blue. The one he gave me for my last birthday. I coughed.
“I want to tie you up.”
I laughed then, a dry nervous sound. “You what?” Images of torture victims ran through my mind, photographs from the newspaper, television news, movies, showing innocent people bound hand and foot with rags stuffed in their mouths, blood seeping from head injuries, bruises mottling their skin.
“I won’t hurt you.” He sat on the bed next to me and held my hand. Then he moved my hand to his erection. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”
“Then why do you need the scarf?” I wasn’t naïve. And I wasn’t a prude. But the knife incident had made me wary.
“To show you how good it can be.” He slipped a loose knot around my left wrist, the good one, sliding the silk back and forth over my skin. I closed my eyes at the sensual softness. “Doesn’t that feel good?” He continued the motion while he kissed my neck, my ear, the curve of my jaw.
My body relaxed against the bed pillows. Eyes still closed, I tilted my head back and surrendered. This was my husband. This was the man who loved me. He would never do anything to harm me.
Softness slid around my other wrist, low enough to escape the tender scab. I felt my arms extend with my wrists above my head. I wriggled beneath the sheets, anxious for a moment at facing the unknown. Then I relaxed again.
“I love you, Karen.”
There was an edge to his voice that made me open my eyes. He knelt in front of me and lowered the covers, then he raised my nightgown to my waist. My body lay exposed, helpless. The cool night air drifted over my skin. I shivered in anticipation.
Then he raised the knife.
I shuddered in fear. Huge, violent, spasms that jerked my limbs. The blade slashed and my voice came out like a pig’s squeal.
But he hadn’t cut me.
Blood trickled down his right wrist, an identical cut to the one he gave me last night. “Help me,” he said. And I knew what I had to do.
His wrist tasted salty and cool and spicy clean from his aftershave. I licked his wound, gently at first, new to the experience, then with greater fervor as the drops slid down my throat and joined with my own blood, flowing, gliding, seeking the humming center of my body.
He pulled his arm from my mouth and fastened his lips on mine, smearing both our faces with those blessed ruby drops. “I need you,” he said between kisses. “I need you.”
Heat festered inside me. “I need you, too. Now.”
Nodding, he drew more blood from the cut with his mouth, and with that crimson mouth he moved between my legs and kissed me where he had never kissed me.
My body lifted off the bed. My fingers clawed the air and from my throat emerged a raw, hoarse scream.
Warm morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows. I whistled while I stirred a pot of oatmeal. Michael entered the kitchen looking impossibly handsome. Same clothes, but something different. Brighter, more alert. I blushed as our eyes met.
“Oatmeal again?”
“Yeah. Want some?” I felt cheeky and sexy and ready to pull him down to the floor.
“Thanks, but I’m late. See you tonight.”
“Okay.” I grabbed his collar and gave him a hot kiss.
“What was that for?” He seemed surprised.
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
He scratched his head and adjusted his shirt. “Well, later.”
I smiled and waved goodbye.
When I washed our stained sheets that afternoon I wondered if there was something wrong with us. None of our friends collected knives. At least not the kind Michael had. Not that I knew of. And our friends didn’t have kinky sex. Or did they? I tried to imagine Meg and Jim doing what we did last night and dropped the box of detergent on the floor. White powder shot across the tiles like the tracks from chicken feet. As I swept up the mess I kept thinking about the taste of Michael’s blood and the feel of his mouth on my… With a stern shake of my head, I started the washer. I was a nice, normal, intelligent housewife.
But what if there was something wrong?
Michael came to bed that evening wearing pajamas. Plain blue cotton ones with frayed cuffs and a missing button. He climbed into bed, pecked my cheek, and turned out the light.
I snuggled close. “Honey, don’t you want to―”
“I’m really tired tonight, Karen. Let’s just get some sleep.”
“Just a little quickie?” I needed release. I’d been thinking about sex all day.
“Not tonight. Jim was out sick today. I think I’m coming down with whatever he’s got.”
I kissed him on the cheek. “You get some sleep.”
Two hours later I tiptoed from the bedroom and searched Michael’s office for his knife. Under file folders, in desk drawers, behind the books in his bookcase. Nothing. Frustrated, I marched into the kitchen to brew myself some tea. Something hot would calm me. Something soothing, like chamomile. While the tea steeped I flipped through a Bon Appetit magazine but even recipes for chocolate desserts left me indifferent. Just drink the tea and go to bed, I thought. As I pushed the magazine aside, the glossy paper bumped my paring knife. The three-inch knife whose blade was so sharp it sliced into my fingers with every use.
I hadn’t asked Michael if he sterilized his knife, but I wasn’t taking any chances. A cotton swab and alcohol and I was ready. Right arm again? Left arm? I decided on the right, several inches higher where it would be easier to cover.
Holding the blade against my skin, seeing that fine line of steel next to my flesh, I chickened out. I needed a counter action, something to take my mind off the pain from the knife. If only Michael were awake. It didn’t hurt at all with him.
I grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and tilted it to my mouth. A searing flame ripped down my throat and in the next second, while my throat still screamed, I sliced the blade across my arm.
It was amazing to watch the blood leap to the surface, to see the innermost part of me spring forth. I put my mouth to my flesh. Like Jesus drinking of his own body. I didn’t feel the least bit sacrilegious. Desire raged in me, roaring hot and thick. And finally I found satisfaction.
I stayed busy the next day. Walked three miles, played tennis with Meg in the afternoon, washed and waxed the floors, and cooked a three-course dinner. All in the attempt to keep my mind off the events of the previous night. I didn’t even examine the cut on my arm. It was there, clean and bandaged, and that was that.
At bedtime, I lay next to Michael, warm and cozy with his arm around me.
“Sorry I haven’t been feeling well,” he said. “But I think the worst is behind me. I should be okay by tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Determined to fight this strange behavior, I turned off the light and closed my eyes. And thought of Michael standing nude in front of the bed, wanting me, needing me, watching me while I licked the blood from his arm, licked the drops of blood that trickled down his arm, trickled down his arm, trickled down…
Wisps of steam rose from my peppermint tea. I sat at the table with my hands around the cup for warmth and stared at nothing. My head felt heavy, thick, full of mush.
“Good morning,” Michael said. “Where’s the oatmeal?”
“In my head.”
He put his palm on my forehead. “No fever. Is your stomach upset?”
“No. I just don’t feel well.”
“Poor thing.” He kissed my cheek. “You probably got what’s going around.” He checked his watch. “Well, take it easy today. If you’re still sick tonight, I’ll cook dinner.”
I barely had the strength to nod goodbye. After the door closed I continued to stare at my tea, cooling in the quiet of the morning. My ears took in the sweet call of a robin but I could not move my eyes from the cup of hazy golden liquid. After dozing off some minutes later, I shuffled to bed, wrapped myself in the cozy comfort of the covers, and fell asleep.
That evening my strength returned, enough to make a simple dinner. Michael clattered in his office while I cooked.
“Have you seen my knife?” he called.
“What knife?” He knew how I felt about knives. I chopped slivers of cabbage for coleslaw, intent on the up and down movement of the heavy blade.
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Nanette Littlestone is a freelance editor, author, songwriter, and poet who lives in Johns Creek, Georgia. A vivid imagination, a love of travel, and a belief in magic and mystery are her creative guides. Her work has appeared in The Writer’s Room, The Sidewalk’s End, Mystic Horizon Press, and Andwerve.
She is currently working on a novel about the power of forgiveness to heal past-life jealousy and betrayal that begins in ancient Rome and ends in modern day Atlanta.
Find more information about Nanette on her blog:
http://nanettelittlestone.wordpress.com/
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