Disclaimer: I make no claim on anything that belongs to Mark 1, as usual.


Amanda Birchill

I've always wanted to have my clothes cut off me with a knife.

Back in my formative years, I'd glimpsed the cover of some lurid paperback and, like a lot of things that tweak a newly emerging sexuality, the image stayed with me, seared into my brain and forging a hard-wired connection to my libido. I've no idea what the book's actual plot - if there was one - was about, but on the cover was a pretty, blonde woman, her hands cuffed above her head, her lips parted and her eyes wide and fearful at the knife that had partially severed her bra. The man wielding the knife was a faceless shadow, a symbol of menace and domination; he wasn't as important as the knife, or the woman's provocative reaction to it.
       So - all through my sexual life I'd carried this little kernel of perversity safely hidden, waiting for the right moment, the right person, for it to blossom. But in all my partners, from 'serious relationship' to 'casual screw', I'd never found anyone I trusted, or thought was strong enough, to reveal this quirk to. When I say 'strong', I don't mean simply physical strength, although that has it's place, but strength of personality. Someone who is secure and confident enough with who they are that they're not threatened by anything that's considered out of the 'norm'.
       I'd never even met anyone like that until I met Bodie.

Bodie falls into the 'casual repeat screw' category, which suits us both just fine. I've no doubt if I'd been the marrying kind I wouldn't have seen him for dust! Gorgeous man, tall and broad, just the way I like 'em. He's got an Irish type of colouring; not the fair-haired, light-eyed, pink-tinged skin sort, but the other type - the 'dark' Irish, dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin that veins show blue through. His eyes are actually a deep and vibrant blue - and I know this is a cliché, but I just can't think of a better description - they're like deep, inviting pools. I have no idea what he does for a living; he admits to having been in the army but is a bit hazy about everything else. He once said he was a 'civil servant', but that was so obviously tongue-in-cheek I didn't bother believing it. Weeks will go by between phone calls from him, but that's fine, as I said, if I'd wanted any type of commitment from him I doubt I would've seen him more than twice. I can't in all honesty say I always drop whatever it is I'm doing when he rings, but near enough - there's reasons why he's in the 'casual repeat screw' category.
       On one of those infrequent times he called me and we went out, I'd discovered the Swiss Army knife in his back pocket and I'd spoken before I'd realized I'd even opened my mouth - brandy does that to me.
       "I've had this fantasy for years about someone cutting my clothes off me." I'd said dreamily, pulling out the longest blade and running a finger-tip lightly along the edge.
       "That's a bit kinky." He'd chuckled with a waggle of his angled eyebrows... and didn't mention it again. Damn.

I didn't hear from him for a couple of months; then, out of the blue, as usual, he turned up on my doorstep with a half-hours notice, looking edible, as usual. No hardship to go out with Bodie at the drop of a hat; he's a great date, charming, entertaining, easy on the eyes, terrific in the sack...
       After a good meal and the usual flirty conversation, I invited him back to my place for coffee - read: sex. I'd kicked off my shoes and I hadn't even got as far as the kitchen to begin the pretence of making coffee when he manoeuvred me up against a wall and kissed me deeply. After making sure I knew exactly where things stood, he stepped back and regarded me with a curiously boyish, 'I've-got-a-secret', smile.
       "Stand in the doorway and touch the lintel." he said.
       With a subtle flourish he produced a knife from behind his back.
       It was a Sykes-Fairburn - a beautiful knife with an eight inch long, double-edged blade that tapers elegantly to a fine point - the British Commando knife since WWII.
       Surprised I recognized it so easily?
       Don't be - you can't have an obsession about something without acquiring some knowledge of it.

"Doorway. Now." Bodie said softly but with a definite edge of command. Oh god.
       I wobbled over, and turned to face him, hesitantly reaching upwards, my fingers just brushing the wood. He smiled the sort of smile I imagined animal-handlers used when their charges behave as expected; pleased but not surprised. He walked towards me, holding the knife up near his face.
       I was transfixed.
       "Stay very still."
       It was an unnecessarily warning, I knew that edge would be wickedly sharp. He touched my cheek with the flat of the blade and it was colder than I could've imagined. He tilted the knife until only the tip of the point was barely touching my skin, then he lightly swept the blade along my cheek bone, down past the corner of my jaw and onto the outside of my neck, teasing a delicious, anticipatory shiver from me. He ran the point gently, so gently, under my chin and I froze, my skin prickling at the feel of that deadly sharpness resting lightly against my throat. I searched for reassurance in his unfathomable eyes and he quirked an eyebrow up in enquiry. My call - did I want to continue? I was poised between fear and arousal, but for better or worse, I trusted him. I licked my lips and nodded, very slightly. He stepped in close, our bodies just touching and held the knife close to my lips.
       "Kiss it." He whispered.
       I pressed my closed lips to the smooth, dark metal, lingeringly and reverently, my eyes wide open and never leaving his.
       "Open your mouth."
       I did, without hesitation, and Bodie slid the knife into my mouth. My breath caught when I felt the tip of the blade against my tongue. I can't describe the blatant sexuality of this, but it was the closest I'd ever been to coming without being touched. Bodie tilted the knife up, forcing me to open my mouth wider. I could feel one of those edges scraping my upper teeth as he slowly pulled the knife out of my mouth. I closed my eyes as the point passed my lips and, barely touching me, moved down and over my chin. I lifted my chin up, exposing my throat, and Bodie obliged, zigzagging the point slowly down my hypersensitive skin, right down until it stopped at the top of my cleavage. He held the knife there while he pulled the hem of my top free from my skirt. I opened my eyes when I felt the knife slip underneath my top, the point emerging at the bottom of the 'V' neck; I didn't want to miss that first cut.
       It was a very sharp knife, slicing easily through the soft, jersey material with a faint ripping sound. This was my favourite, pale-blue, clingy, twenty quid shirt being sliced off my body, and I didn't give a shit.
       What good are clothes if not to be sliced off you by an attractive man with a very sharp knife?
       Bodie looked pleased with himself, admiring the way the soft material fell back and framed my upper body. He tweaked my nipples through the satin of my bra.
       "Yes?" the smug bastard asked.
       "Yes." I said, in an amazingly steady voice. He trailed the fingers of his free hand down to my navel.
       "Open your legs."
       I wriggled my feet apart as far as my tightish skirt would let me. Bodie knelt in front of me and the knife disappeared beneath my skirt.
       "Breathe." He ordered me with a grin. I gulped in a great, shuddering breath, then another. He smiled, vastly amused.
       "Just get on with it." I managed to grate out.
       He began at the hem. The denim was held taut by my open-legged stance, making it easier to cut. I loved the way the constricting pressure of the skirt against my legs lessened as the material parted beneath the knife, creeping upwards inch by inch towards my crotch. I knew Bodie was being careful, but I still quivered when the blade brushed against my belly. Bodie waited for me to be still before he sliced the body of the skirt away from the waist band; it now hung open at the front, echoing the ruin of my top.
       He stepped back to survey his handiwork, seemingly satisfied with it, if the glitter in his eyes and the slight flush over his cheeks was anything to go by. I can imagine what I must have looked like; panting and damp with lust. He smiled and dropped to his knees in front of me again. Bodie pulled the crotch of my pantyhose away from my body and neatly sliced along the seam giving me an instant 'crotchless'. He pushed his hand through the hole he'd created and lightly stroked the top of my inner thighs.
       If the intent was to soothe me, it failed miserably.
       I gasped and bit my lip when he snaked a finger through the side of my knickers, then held my breath again at the touch of the knife between my legs. A quick slice and my knickers were crotchless too. Bodie grinned wickedly and played a teasing finger along my labia, watching my face all the time. Picking up the pace now, he reached in through the hole in my pantyhose and hooked out the edge of my knickers. Another quick slice through the elastic on either side and then he was pulling the remnants down and out through the hole in my pantyhose. He briefly used a finger to search out my clitoris, but maddeningly, having found it, left it alone.
       "Are your arms tired?" He asked roughly, an unmistakable edge coming into his voice. He had to wait a couple of seconds before I could give him a response; coherent thought was rapidly becoming a receding memory. Now that he'd drawn my intention to them, yes, my arms were tired and my fingers were tingling from the lack of circulation.
       "Put them down."
       I did, barely noticing the uncomfortable rush of blood back to my fingertips, because Bodie had stood up and was cutting one of my bra straps. His movements were quick and purposeful now, and his eyes, I was quietly thrilled to note, were darkening with his own need to bring this to a conclusion. He sliced through the remaining strap and finally, deftly pushed the knife up between my breasts, snicking open the front of my bra. He gripped the satiny scrap, whipping it away from me, and flung it - somewhere. He roughly pulled the waistband of my skirt out from my body and quickly sawed through the double layer of material, letting the garment drop to the floor. He didn't bother cutting the rest of my top away, just pushed it hastily off my shoulders and down my arms to join the skirt at my feet. Then he hurriedly, but carefully, put the knife aside.
       Now that the knife wasn't within sight, the primal, animal part of my brain that had been holding me safely still shook itself free and I fairly sprang at him, growling low in my throat. I managed to stagger him back a step or two, despite his greater weight and height, as I struggled with his fly.
       Enough mucking about - I wasn't going to get any readier!
       He met my passion head-on with his own and between us we managed to get his cock free enough for our immediate purposes without ruining his clothes. Bodie lifted me easily - see, brute strength does have it's uses - and I wound my legs around his waist, my arms about his neck, and I think I shouted something un-neighbourly loud when he pushed me forcefully down onto his erection.
       'Mindless' doesn't even begin to describe it...

Some time later we were sprawled inelegantly on the threadbare floral carpet in a room yards away from where we started - I had no idea how we got there.
       "You're bleeding." I said, poking at the bloodied tracks my nails had raked across his back at some stage. When had his shirt come off?
       "Typical," he mumbled into my neck, "I'm the one with the knife - not a mark on you, by the way - and I'm the one who ends up bleeding." I smiled and rubbed my cheek slowly against his short, dark hair.
       "Go and have a shower."
       "No -." There was a long pause. " - not moving."
       "I don't want you bleeding on my sheets." There was a longer pause. "I'll make it up to you." I wheedled.
       "You've got bacon?"
       I blinked. That wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I'm adaptable.
       "Yes," I grinned, "I have bacon. Bodie?" But he was already asleep.
       I considered moving somewhere more comfortable, but couldn't be stuffed - there were worse places to kip... Gutters, for instance... Don't ask...
       I had one last thought, before my brain determinedly pursued sleep like a hedgehog after a bowl of milk - I wondered if I could persuade Bodie to leave the Sykes-Fairburn with me when he left - purely for safe-keeping of course.

The Sykes-Fairburn. Pretty, eh?

© 2001 (January) Amanda Birchill

© 2000 WordWrights.

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