Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thought I'd be a freak and a sadist and write this charming little story. Warning, I may or may not have been on an INTENSE sugar-high (take that up with strawberry mentos) when I wrote this. So bear with me.
Have you ever had a knife pulled on you?
I have. I'm seventeen, and I have.
My therapist says that that man and his knife messed me up, and I let her believe it. But I know that her assumption is far from the truth. I have a secret, you see, a bad one, one that confirms my belief that I am not like anyone else. That I'm a freak... a freak like him. You wanna hear it?
It's dark, there's no moon, and I'm walking home alone, because that's what I do. I'm sixteen and alone walking through the worst parts of Gotham and I'm headstrong. I'm arrogant, invincible, and I think that I know everything.
And then he was there, and I knew nothing. He was behind me, before me, around me, it was hard to tell. He was there to shake me: to rattle the cages.
He's got this knife, you see, a harpy if I remember correctly, and he's got it pulled real tight to my throat... And he's absolutely purring over this. I'm the kill and he's the sadist.
Such a clever man and yet he didn't understand. He couldn't see that I wanted this. Why else would I walk through this city at night, alone? I wanted to be brought to life, shaken from my dreams with force. Rough, erotic force.
The blade is cool and sharp against my skin. He threatens and laughs and makes little teasing cuts, but I can't hear him. All I feel is the smooth blade of the knife; its tantalizing feel. The danger of the situation is lost in the eroticism of it.
Every little pressure he applies draws moans and sighs from me, and I don't have the decency to hide it. Soon he realizes that I'm getting off on this as much as he is. It's then that he pulls the harpy away and looks at me through those kohl-blackened eyes. Deadly serious, and he asks,
"Do you want this?"
All I can do is nod dumbly as he erupts into loud laughter, not unlike a hyena's bark, and hope, no pray, that he'll continue to torture me. And he does, but in a quite different way.
He dives upon me, smothering me in a rough kiss with tongues and scars and teeth. It was more a bite than a kiss, and I can still feel it hot on my lips, like a burn that hasn't quite healed. That kiss was a ferocious assault on each other, but he broke off first, leaving me breathless and bleeding.
"You really are something else. I'll see you soon, girly."
And he walks away, laughing that hyena laugh of his, but not before palming me the knife that he almost slit my throat with. And he whispers, lips smacking,
"Have a little fun while I'm gone. 'kay, dollface?"
So, I'll ask you again, have you ever had a knife pulled on you? I have... and I liked it.