Page 91 of Forced Vows

He wants to cut my bra off, just like my panties. Why is that sharp knife against my skin so exciting?

It should scare me, but I know deep into the soul that finally rejoined my body that Miceli will never physically harm me.

I nod.

"Say it."

"Yes." Might as well. With the panties destroyed, it's not a set anymore anyway.

The flat side of his knife blade slides up, lifts from my skin. Then he twists his wrist and pulls, cutting right through my bra strap.

"Don't move." He slides the knife over my collarbone and under the other strap.

Breathing shallowly, I don't so much as flicker an eyelash.

"Good girl." Another twist of his wrist and he's cut through the second strap.

A surge of pleasure pulses in my clitoris, my vaginal walls contracting in an involuntary spasm.

The knife slides over the slope of my breast taking the lace of my bra with it and revealing my breast. My hard nipple zings with electric current when the steel glides over it.

"You are such a good girl. So fucking perfect."

Those words fizz through my blood like an uncorked bottle of champagne.

He brushes the knife along my chest and over the curve of my other boob, using it to draw down the lace from that cup too. Then in a movement so quick, I feel the brush of air but don't see it, he cuts through the fabric connecting the cups.

The remains of the bra slips from my skin with a whisper of sound.

His hold on the knife shifts and suddenly it is pointing down at me. "Yes, or no?"

"Y—" I clear my throat. "Yes."

"Perfect."

He touches the tip of my nipple with the tip of his knife. Wetness gushes between my legs.

The sharp knife that cut my grandfather so easily doesn't cut me.

The hand that wielded the blade to leave a cut no deeper than a scratch on my grandfather's throat expertly wields it now. It touches me but does not bite into my skin. Does not draw blood.

He lays it on my chest, blade pointed toward my mons. Miceli doesn't have to tell me not to move.

He is showing as much trust in me not to hurt myself by doing so as I am that he will not hurt me with that wickedly sharp blade.

After bending to the side, he straightens and lifts his arm, his belt in his hand.

"Yes, or no?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Yes, or no?" he repeats.

I can say no. And he'll drop the belt. I'm as sure of that as I am my own unbearable excitement.

"Yes." It's barely a whisper, but he hears me.

He expertly binds my wrists with it. Did he learn that in the bedroom or on the job?

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