#eons ago

And it’s just, he looks at you where you’re tied down, spread open and still sticky; he looks from the knife in his hand to his dick to your belly and back the other way. Lines the blade up alongside himself and sighs, twitches, the jerk and pulse of blood reflected in the knife. It’s sharp, so fucking sharp; he cares so for his toys. And he’ll care for you as well, if you survive this. Might not, though. It’s a process.

He’s working out the logistics, you can see it; he tells you all about the bedbug and its penis, how it stabs straight into its mate’s belly. And he can do some real damage with his, he has in fact; he’s left you bruised and bloody, left you aching, but even this is beyond him. For all his awful hardness, he still can’t stab into you. Not really. Hence the knife.

He holds himself parallel to the blade, presses himself right up along the flat of it and lucky for him, he’s big but the blade is bigger. And there’s fear coiling in your gut because he’s serious, he’s really fucking serious about this. He presses the tip of the knife to your belly, walks it just a little farther past the end of his cock, a little dead space between penetration and fucking.

He’s got a two-handed grip, keeping himself absolutely steady along the flat of the blade, guiding the entire fiendish apparatus to the softness inside your hipbone. The fourth and fifth fingers of his right hand come up to steady himself against your skin, considering. And then he shifts to a sharp and sudden angle and stabs inside.

The first thrust is sharp agony, and he cannot quite get inside that slender slit left by the end of the knife so he withdraws, shifts a little, cock pulsing in time to your screams. He adjusts the angle and tries again, making a line that intersects the first cut and now he’s inside you, now his hands are slippery with blood where they hold his cock against the knife, where his fingertips too disappear into the wound.

His hands slip; the knife twists wetly in his grip and he nearly loses his cock to it but lucky for him it’s only you who’s cut, the wound growing wider and more ragged by the moment. And he throws the knife away because he is wanton but he is not stupid; now he plants one hand on your belly and the other wraps around himself to line up, to guide himself back into the meaty mess of you.

And he is silent, so perfectly silent, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, not watching the twist of agony on your face even though he loves it so; he’s watching himself disappear inside you by inches, smearing blood all around the hole, leaving handprints and cock prints and unidentifiable smears all over your skin. He’s torn something inside, whatever keeps your organs in their proper places, and he has the freedom to slide slickly wherever he pleases. He goes shallow to see the outline of himself through your skin; he curls over you and thrusts deeply to feel your guts part around him. And all the while your kittenish moans and mewls are weak and growing weaker; they fuel him to drive in harder with every decrease in your own strength.