A Collection of Spectacles

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I may as well be honest. I don’t know if this will ever happen.

There were two scenarios. Both were to be done in one day at different times.

I’m sitting on top of him and moving around, getting his dick hard while I threaten him with a knife. I’m pushing on his throat. I look down and notice that his Adam’s apple touches the blade every time he swallows.

“You think I’ll really cut you?”

I’m running the sharp end along his chest, lightly. I sit in his lap and tell him if he doesn’t touch me here and here and here that I’ll actually do it as I press the knife between his legs.

I’m laying in his lap, legs spread wide. He teases me, rubbing a knife over the fabric of my underwear. He cuts it off. He keeps running the knife all along my pussy and when I get wet, he presses the blade to it, plays in the fluid. I cum thinking about him teaching me things I should know about my body but don’t because I’m too much like a child.

I overthink things endlessly, and I end up looking like a fool. I can’t help that I like the worst in people. It makes me wet. I can be very sweet and dutiful, though I can’t help but smirk when someone thinks I’m a cunt. When I edge, I think about you losing control and saying just come over let me fuck you. I wanna take turns threatening and fucking each other until we both get off. Deposit cum in me like a wet rag while I quiver.

There is an inexplicable relationship between violence and sex. We don’t think of either as art, but both have ties to a shocking form of beauty: the sublime.

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