The Borrowing Part Two

Next comes the skirt. It's always rather exciting to see her suck their tummy in when the knife blade works down to her skirt or trousers. Sometimes, it's almost willingly, to help me get on with the job in hand. Like now. Not that I'd be clumsy enough to cut her by mistake. I've practised over the years and I'm very, very careful. No point in ruining the mood with a stray cut at this stage of the game!

The fabric of the skirt parts easily. Usually, I follow the line of the side seam, but this time, as the skirt is so smooth, I just go straight down the front. Even the waistband doesn't offer much resistance. And then it falls away and I have a clear view of her very sweet suspender belt (black and lacy, not matching the bra, interestingly enough, which indicates she's sophisticated enough to mix and match), sheer black stockings and, of course, a pair of very wet, black satin panties.

The odour from her panties is an interesting – and very exciting – mix of female musk and, of course, urine. I notice she's shivering slightly now that most of her clothes have gone and she's probably very embarrassed at having her wet panties revealed. But she knows, as well as I know, that they're not that wet just because of her little accident. Oh no. More barriers giving way….

I ask her conversationally, with added concern: "Oh, did you wet yourself? Were you really that frightened?" She stammers that yes, she was very scared. She's learnt not to try my patience by keeping silent, but at this stage of the game, I think she actually wants to talk to me. She wants to participate, even though she's the passive 'victim'. I think I should have been a psychologist.

Now I set about removing her jacket and blouse completely. This is where a really good knife comes into its own. Let me tell you about my knife. It's true that any sharp knife will do this job, even a kitchen knife. Back in the beginning I used a hunting/fishing knife. Good and sharp, but somewhat lacking in finesse and not wholly suitable for the full job. You have to think of these things, think them through. This knife is, I am sure, unique. I picked it up in an antiques shop on a business trip. It's very long – more of a short sword, almost – and is devilishly sharp when fully honed. The hilt interested me most – very ornate, engraved and bevelled - ideal for the purpose. Crucially, the hilt is made of wood, (teak, I think). When oiled, the wood is warm and the bevelled handle almost moulds to the flesh when gripped. Like I said, too much pressure on this knife and accidents can happen, so you need to know how to handle it properly. But let's just say I've had plenty of practice.

In any case, the blade can slice through a thick jacket sleeve as though it were paper, and without too much effort on my part, especially if I follow the seams. I've soon cut the rest of her jacket from her, just holding her wrists with one hand and manipulating the knife with the other. The blouse is easy and comes apart in a few short strokes. I notice the goose bumps forming on her soft, pale skin as the chill air reaches her exposed flesh.

I've been doing this sort of thing long enough to have an instinct for when a certain move is appropriate, or what action will cause arousal in the subject. So I deliberately moved a little closer to her now, stroking her hair, caressing her jaw line and throat, slowly sliding my hand down to her breasts, gently squeezing each one, before slowly, unhurriedly cutting the remains of her bra off – first one shoulder strap, then another, then snipping each side. I can hear her breathing becoming more hurried, ragged even, seeing her body squirm and jump at my touch – but not from revulsion – from arousal. The little flushes across her back and across her breasts – just like those which occur on cuttlefish – betray her emotional state, her interest, her sexual readiness. Oh yes, she's probably still in mental and emotional turmoil, a real conflict going on inside her head now- after all, I've abducted her, tied her up and she still doesn't know my full motives although, as this is our regular kind of game, she has a pretty good idea of what to expect. And as I ponder this point, I see her brow furrow – she's remembering the first time, even though most of it's gone from her now. Like I said, I've refined my technique over the years. I don't use such a crude drug nowadays. Too dangerous and prone to causing memory loss. Of course, for some off-the-peg date rapist, that's fine – the less memory remains, the better. But for me, memory is important. I want her to remember. Hell, she wants to remember. So I use a better drug nowadays in spray form. More expensive, obviously, but quick, effective and generally harmless.

"What are you thinking?" I ask her. I can see my voice startles her, and the fact that I am aware she's thinking hard about that first time is another indication of my control over her, or yet another barrier – that of her own thoughts – breaking down and yielding to me. Maybe that's why she starts to cry, I can see the tears leaking from under the blindfold. Better not cry too much – the adhesive could come away. Possibly the sharp tug on her suspender belt onto her delicate thigh as I cut through it caused her some pain. I reassure her and kiss her thigh, soothing the red mark that the belt has left. I can tell she's appreciated this by the fact that her leg muscles are relaxing.

It's so sensual to cut a woman's stockings off – lovely, easy motion with the knife, the flimsy, sheer material simply falling away, parting before the blade, exposing her smooth legs. But if you think that's sensual, then try cutting off her shoes. Shoes are important to women. They express a lot about the femininity and intelligence of the wearer. Flat, lace-up beetle crushers are for frumps. Trainers can look good on most feet, if they're clean and smart enough. Glossy, patent leather shoes, with heels are the top of the range. The heels mustn't be too high, because that's just vulgar "Oooh-Sharon-let's-dance round-our-handbags" stuff. Classy shoes these, sensual to look at, showing the feet and delicate calves off to their best advantage, heels just high enough to be feminine, short enough to be no-nonsense. Little leather strap means time is taken to fasten them, rather than just slip them on, or to sit grunting, doing up laces. Style again, see?

The thin leather straps snip easily and I pull the shoes off, one by one, discarding them casually. Oh yes, the shoes were expensive, but she doesn't mind now. She doesn't try to kick me in the face. She's accepted it all now. Everything must go, be destroyed, cut away – every barrier obliterated, never to be rebuilt. Well – not rebuilt before me at any rate.

So now she stands, slightly on tiptoes, hopping slightly because her bare feet are touching the cold floor, painted toenails, like the fingernails. Pale pink, not crass and glossy. Classy.

But still she hasn't answered my question about her memory – such as it is – of her first borrowing. So I look up from her tummy and ask her again about it. She says she doesn't know, but she's lying. Just that last little bit of arrogance, that last vestige of denial, of wanting to retain her own power, her own control over herself. Resistance to the game, sure, but still part of the game. "I thought you might be thinking that this felt a little familiar or maybe that you'd dreamt of something like this happening," I say, calmly and evenly. My calmness is penetrating her resolve; she knows I know she's lying. She almost admits it then says – too quickly – that I'm wrong. I allow myself a little humorous "Tch!", which indicates I am pretending that I'm a little disappointed in her for persisting in a lie. No matter. We'll come back to it in a few moments.

The jewellery needs to go now. In one sense, far more personal than clothes, jewellery is a woman's badge of self, it portrays her persona. You've seen all those denim-jacketed and short-skirted bimbos with at least ten thick gold chains round their necks and fake watch fobs on the end of some? Cheap. No class whatsoever. It just says "Hey look at me! I can afford a lot of crap and I'm trying to make myself look more interesting, better off and attractive than I really am." I wouldn't waste my efforts trying to borrow one of them. They'd do anything for a few drinks or a snort. Quickies in the alley behind McDonald's aren't my idea of fun. I'll leave that to Wayne and Gary. So, as with most things, minimal jewellery says the most about a woman – or a man, come to that. Less is always more.

So it's no big effort to cut the strap of her small, gold wristwatch. It might well have sentimental value – a present, most likely – but in the game it means nothing to me. It's another personal barrier to be stripped away, so I don't hold it, I let it fall to the floor where the glass face shatters. In that very action, she learns that I may be a gentleman, but I'm not soft or sentimental.

Her small pearl necklace goes next, one quick snip and the pearls scatter across the floor, tinkling and bouncing, the light catching each in a myriad of rainbow movements. By the tensing of her jaw and the pursing of her lips, I can see that the necklace meant more to her than the watch, but she's accepted the necessity of its removal. It has to be done. She can't participate unless she's been totally stripped.

I return to the subject of her first borrowing. In one sense, I was as inexperienced in this as she was when she agreed to me borrowing her. I'd been following her for some time up to that afternoon when she presented me with the perfect opportunity to borrow her. Her friends simply didn't notice her go out the back of the pub they were in with that slightly older man she hung around with, the 'suit' who promised her a good time. "Talking of memories, you remember how you got drunk and passed out when you were 18 don't you? How you thought a day bunking off school drinking and messing around would be soooo cool?" I ask her, adding with a nonchalant air, "How you must have drunk more than you thought, and you woke up in some bushes, by your parents' house? You remember that now, don't you?"

That startles her. That and the fact that my knife is now cutting each strap of her sodden panties. The wetness makes them stick to her, between her legs for a second or two, before they drop to the floor with a satisfyingly wet 'plop!' And now she's fully exposed, her pussy wet and open, pink and inviting. I decide against shaving her with the knife – very swift when it's this sharp, as she's partly shaved already, and access doesn't appear to be a problem. As the panties fall away, she actually squeals with delight. No pretence at aloofness or disgust now. No barriers left. No more lies. I've cut all her barriers away; I've even broken through her mental wall and into her mind, her thoughts, her very memory. I am in total control now and she knows it. I've won the game – luckily for her. She is mine.

I ask her if she remembers anything about that day, fifteen years ago. She frowns, recalling all she can. No attempt is made to hide the facts from me. She knows that I am merely seeking confirmation of a fact. She admits that she woke in the bushes by her parents' house, to find herself dishevelled, her school tie missing, her blouse open, the buttons gone, ripped away. She puts it down to being drunk and falling over and muses that she never did find her school tie. I knew then that she had a spare anyway. She certainly wasn't the sort of girl to turn up at school inappropriately dressed. I allow myself a laugh, and she falls silent. I point out that she wouldn't have found her tie even if she'd looked, because I'd kept as a souvenir of the first time I borrowed her.

"Borrowed?" she stammers. "What do you mean 'borrowed'?" Again, the game plan. Acting out her confusion so well. She should be on the stage. Well – maybe not. Not like this, anyway. I stroke her cheek with my knuckles as I speak, and she inadvertently turns her head into my knuckles, her lips parting slightly, responding to my touch.

Now is the moment.

I hold the knife handle to her lips. At first, she shies away – it must feel strange, I realise, but I press it against her lips and, as I expected, she opens her lips in obedience and, I know, interest. I feel my hardness growing as her tongue licks the bevelled handle of the knife, her lips brushing it so gently as I move it along for her, until her tongue touches cold steel and then, she smiles, as if greeting an old friend. Which, in a way, she is. And I can see by the slight cocking of her head that she's actually interested in the knife. Like I said, it isn't just any old knife and she realises this from before. But again, that's class for you. I only borrow the best.

Now she runs her tongue up and down the handle's length, darting out to touch the steel blade, her cheeks, ear lobes and nipples flushing. The next stage will be easy, and has come about quicker than I anticipated. She's lost all her inhibitions now. Her barriers have gone. With the cutting away of her severe suit, her more sensual underwear and her personal jewellery, she has found her femininity, her sexuality. Cold logic and so-called reason are gone and she's almost getting into a frenzy just licking the knife. I need to assert my authority again, show her who's in charge. Ration the passion, so to speak. I pull the knife away and she strains her head and body forward, her tongue following the knife, instinctively, not relying on sight, but on smell and touch. It's like a narcotic to her. She's on a sexual high. A quick glance at her pussy confirms this. She's dripping wet. Blood engorged lips. She wants fucking, fucking hard and fucking now. But she'll have to wait – just a bit longer.

I gently touch one of her nipples with the tip of the blade. Careful here – too much pressure and it will be pain. Keep it light and it's pure pleasure, all the way. By this stage they all enjoy this, and she is no exception. The mere touch of the blade on her nipples has her thrusting her pelvis towards me, an instinctive motion, not one of appeasement, or of trying to feign an interest – her body is reacting to its most basic instincts and no amount of logical thought can stop it.

I continue to use the blade's tip to excite the nipple into total, rock hard ecstasy, and then I lay the flat of the blade over it, squashing it inwards. She thrashes, she moans, she whimpers and cries. She's begging me for more. The torment is exquisite for her, how much more can she take? I have the urge to relieve myself here and now and if I was to enter her and take her, she would cling to me like a limpet, legs wrapped round me, almost dragging me into her. But that again means a loss of control, no matter how hard I fucked her. No. She has to realise that the ultimate orgasm doesn't come from mere flesh and blood; it comes from the unyielding, all-powerful knife, which is, of course, controlled by me, is an extension of me, and is me. And it is I who direct that orgasm.

But more foreplay. So the knife travels across her body, sometimes the flat, sometimes the tip. And here's the skill – never once cutting her, never once drawing blood. She feels the blade, she knows how sharp it is, how easily it cut her clothes away, and she knows that I control it and could, with the slightest change in pressure, cause her great pain or far, far worse. Down her spine travels the blade, lightly, languidly and she arches her whole body, tears flowing freely down her face, head back, mouth wide open, sobbing and begging me to stop. Not because she's afraid, not because it hurts – but because her body, for so long conditioned by so-called convention, by pointless PC posturing (literally) – cannot take the sudden release of adrenalin, of sexual energy.

I step back and hold the knife aloft. As she slumps down in the ropes, gasping and panting, I wipe my brow and rest my arm. Do you have any idea of how it makes your muscles ache to hold a heavy knife and maintain the correct pressure at all times? Forget working out. You want to tone your muscles to perfection, try doing this. But a word of advice – practice on a tailor's dummy first and see how well you can cope!

If ever the time was right for a female to be fucked, it is now. I wrap the soft cloth cover around the knife blade three times and carefully invert the knife, so I am holding the blade towards me now. The handle protrudes free, allowing me to manipulate it between her legs, forcing them apart, rubbing hard against the sensitive, receptive lips of her pussy. The groan which escapes her is part relief, part excitement. She wants this knife handle inside her. All in good time. I work the handle backwards and forwards, smiling as I see the bevelled design glistening with her juices, thin trails of body dew attaching to it, as I work it upwards slightly towards her ready clit, lubricating both clit and handle in the process. She strains against the ropes, trying to bear down on to the handle. No sense of her being in control here, no feeling of her wanting to 'be on top', it's purely an instinctive response and it's driving her crazy. Her body has a life of its own, fuelled by its long-dormant but now liberated sexuality. That's why she's now begging, crying, pleading, her voice husky with lust, anguished pleas to touch her, to let her come, to release this tension. Enjoyable though this garrulous outpouring of passion may be, it's time for a bit of restraint. I bend down and pick up part of her shredded bra and a blouse sleeve. I exert pressure on her lower lip, forcing her mouth open to allow me to shove the wad of bra fabric into it, swiftly pulling the sleeve across her moth and tying it tight behind her head. She gags and splutters, unable to give vent to her feelings, aware, once again, that she is merely there to follow my instructions, to realise that I control what she feels. I am almost tempted to leave her there for a while and maybe have a cup of coffee – my throat is dry, because even I am getting aroused to almost intolerable levels. But if I leave her, she'll go off the boil and rationale may creep back in. I haven't had a live wire like her for ages, and the cameras are rolling, so….

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

The tidying up is quite a clinical process, and something of an anti-climax in every sense of the word. She's fast asleep now, lying on a mattress, which I have provided specially for the purpose, covered with a quilt. After all, it's cold in this warehouse; I can't just leave her to catch a chill. She hasn't got the inner passion to heat her body now. She looks so sweet, calm, composed and I feel my loins stir when I remember that she's naked beneath the quilt. Well, why don't I just fuck her now, you ask, while she's lying there, out of it, drugged again? Because it would be tacky, that's why. She won't know, and how could anything follow the exquisite pleasure of what transpired less than half an hour ago? Besides, it's not part of the game. No style to it. I have plenty of sexual tension built up inside me now, passion ready to spill out. My wife is in for a good time later on. We both are.

So there I am, carefully picking up every shred of clothing, every button, every pearl, shoes as well and putting them in a black bin liner so I can burn them later. I take the tapes from the cameras through into the specially adapted back office and start to replay them on the state-of-the-art machine bought from a professional video production studio just for this purpose. Playback. Zoom. Splice. Long shot. Close Up. It's all there, all editing together easily. Some people aren't content with make-believe, even if the so-called actors do fuck each other. They only want reality, and they're prepared to pay handsomely for it. Not that I'd do anything as cheap and tacky as selling these tapes. No way. Private viewing only. Just her and me. They serve a practical purpose too – We're able to study each subject, review what works, what stimulates her, what doesn't do the business. I steal a look at her again and guess she'll be out for a few more hours.