Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 "Are you ready?" I asked her, quietly.  She nodded, dark hair falling
across her eyes.  My right hand held her wrists, but with my free left, I
brushed it back.

   I wanted to see into her eyes.

   The body can be controlled, lips can lie.  But, in the eyes, nothing can
hide.

   Hers were blue, sparkling in the light from an overhead lamp.  They
reflected and refracted light like crystals made of ice.

   Her eyelids trembled, but did not close.  I smiled at her, leaned
closer. I whispered into her ear, "Your will becomes you." As much as I
wanted her to be under my will, first hers must be strong.  The gift of
submission is ever so much more precious when the giver is strong willed
themselves.

   I kissed her cheek, released her wrists.  She rubbed them lightly, out
of habit, although this time my hold had been gentle.  "Then, get it."

   Not having to be told what "it" was, she turned to obey, and I watched
her leave.  Her back was smooth, elegant.  Wide shoulders not quite touched
by softly waving hair, spine barely visible in the dim light.  Crossing her
back, stripes I had given her earlier had almost faded, and now served only
to highlight the curve of her hips.

   She returned, carrying a slender, sharp knife.  I had taken her to a
store earlier this week, after she'd decided she wanted to go through with
this.  I'd been pleased with her choice; the knife was fairly small, the
handle dark, but beautifully carved.

   My arm encircling her slender waist, I stood.  She snuggled under my
arm; I love this, walking with her, her hip bumping against mine.

   We reach the bedroom.  She turns to me, and smiles.  "White sheets?" she
laughs.  I seldom have white sheets on my bed -- usually they are black.

   I smiled back at her.  "Yes, love.  You will leave your blood on them
tonight, and I want to see it."

   She didn't say anything, but sat down on the edge of the bed.  "Are you
nervous?" I asked.

   She shook her head, handed the knife to me, and then leaned forward,
gave me a hug.  "Well, maybe a little.  But I'm sure."

   I took her hand, and her shoulder.  I pushed her back against the
pillows.  I ran my hand from her ribs, down across her belly to caress her
hip.  Then, I followed my touch with the cold touch of the blade of the
knife.  She shivered, goosebumps standing up on her skin, her nipples
hardening, although I didn't know if it was from arousal or from the cold.

   I took her wrist, turned it over.  My fingers ran over the soft skin of
her palm, then the blade of the knife slid over, this time leaving a dark
red line across her skin.  In the first instant, nothing is seen...  and
then the blood wells up, a tiny elongated bubble of liquid.  I leaned over,
licked the blood from the wound.  Warm, rich, the blood is as beautiful as
she is, and every bit as much mine...

   She moaned slightly, holding her hand to my lips.  She looked at my
face, a moment, then returned to watching my mouth on her palm.  I sat down
beside her, my weight pushing down the bed, and making her fall against me
a little.  I reached over, caressed her side with the hilt of the knife,
then reversed it and pushed the sharp blade into her belly.

   I could see her wince, hard, at the pain, but the smile did not leave
her face, nor did her eyes leave mine, as I pushed the knife into her body.
I could feel the resistance as I slid it in a little further, skin and
muscle and internal organs tearing to accommodate the steel.

   As I pulled it out, the blood welled up, very dark, and running over her
slightly rounded belly in rivulets.  This time, not a moan came from her,
but a slight cry, as her eyes closed for a second, then opened again.  I
could see the pain in them, but now, the nervousness, and the fear in them
were totally gone.  I knew that this was what she wanted.

   I leaned over, kissed her gently on the lips, a tremendously chaste
kiss, as my knife slid through the softness of her throat.  She gasped, a
raspy sound as the blood filled her trachea.  This time, I left the knife
in, my hand, now bloody, moving to caress the opposite side of her throat,
lightly feeling the point of the knife through a thin membrane of her skin.

   The look in her eyes as she died, I will never forget...  nothing else
can compare to the emotions of one you love as you kill her.