Deceptive Pleasures
By Rina Garet
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Part Two
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It's almost painful to watch.
Watching those beautiful fingers caress something that can't appreciate it. Wishing those fingers would touch me instead. Watching the expressions of rapture on his face, without being able to let him know I'm there, to let him know I'm sharing it with him.
I want to tell him, to grab him afterward and kiss that salty sweet blood from his lips and revel in the taste of it; blood, sweat, lust, and aya.
Maybe he would let me touch him, finally. The way he touches that katana, in some strange, erotic fascination with the blade. He shares his lust, his blood, with that cold metal. And I am allowed to only watch... and only THAT because he doesn't realize I'm there.
When he cries out, it could be orgasm, it could be pain. When his fingertips are moist with shed fluid, it doesn't matter that it's red, and not clear. It's warm and salty and is the product of some mental union between flesh and blade that in his warped mind, is akin to sexual consummation.
If only I could show him how much better it could be... warm flesh instead of cold metal. Another heart beating in unison with his... someone to give him pleasure back.
He cherishes that blade like no other object or person on this earth. He handles it lovingly, almost reverently. It brings him life. It brings him blood. He feels alive when he kills, in a deadly dance with his thirsting blade.
I know, because he confided in me once. For a moment I felt like I knew him, that he was letting me look into a window that was closed for everyone else. Then that, too, snapped shut on me, and I was left feeling shut out again.
I started watching him after that.
The beautiful look on his face when he grips the blade is enough to make me want to step out of my hiding spot and kiss him senseless, touch him senseless, fuck him senseless. It's so... wanton, so ready, so pleading. Like he's just waiting for someone to come along and fill him with everything that a cold inanimate object can't give.
I'd never thought of him as a sexual being before. Aya was as asexual as the plants in the shop. But after watching those intimate moments with his weapon... as lovely as it was to watch, Aya needed someone to teach him a better way of doing things.
And of course, I wanted to be the one to teach him.
But I can't, yet. I'm not ready to tell him I've been watching.
It's my ritual. His ritual. OUR ritual, even though he doesn't know, yet.
He does it at the same time every day. In the same place each day. Like some religious duty, like some venerable task. His fingers trace the same patterns on the blade, he pricks the same finger. The same warm blood salts his lips. He sighs.
I'm watching him again. Right now.
This time, instead of sitting with the blade, he remains standing. He turns, and suddenly I can feel his eyes pierce me, as if he knows exactly where I am. I'm frozen under his glare, and he steps closer to the closet where I'm standing and watching.
He pushes the door open with the blade of the katana. Light floods in, and I blink.
The katana is pressed against my throat before I can open my eyes.
Heart racing, I look at him. He's cold, stoic, and solid. I have that beautiful blade pressed to my throat, the blade that has been graced by his caresses, graced by his blood. A shiver went down my spine as I realized that was probably the most erotic revelation of my life.
I swallow hard and the blade point presses into my throat, drawing the tiniest droplet of blood. His eyes flick to it, and then back up to my eyes.
"You've been watching."
He knows. So, why has he let me do this for so long?
"Why?" His question is blunt. Genuine curiosity in his eyes, a tilt of his head.
When the hell did *I* become one to be at a loss for words? My mouth is open, but no sound comes out. He lowers the blade, and I'm a bit calmer. A bit.
I regain my composure. Not as quickly as I'd like, but hell, I wasn't expecting this.
I smoothly lean forward and kiss him.
He tenses, and grips the hilt of his katana tighter. Finally, I'm kissing him, and only slightly disappointed that there is no blood on his lips for me to savor. I'm not gentle. I've wanted this much too long to be gentle.
It's like kissing a statue. He doesn't respond.
I step back. I know how to make him respond. I lean down and take his hand, that's still gripping the katana, sharp point stained with my blood. He lets me, and that's a big step on his end. He must want this too, in some respect, to have sought me out from my hiding place after all this time.
I run my fingers up the blade and kiss the flat edge, then brush the metal aside, and taste him again.