Two days ago he had not even known that they still made them. Now he held the pack in his hand. Kneeling over her he took the slim sheath from the pack. Still wrapped in it’s paper he bent it lengthwise, middle fingers underneath, thumbs and forefingers above, until it snapped.
He Gently lifted half the blade from the paper and surveyed her back.
Dimples in the lower back, broad shoulders. A beautiful, spotless back.
He had to trust himself now. He brought the blade down and cut into her. ‘Blood of my blood,’ he whispered to the woman-being beneath him, “love of my love, blood of my blood.’
She lay beneath him, unmoved. His insufficient penis and that of his father and his father’s fathers laughed at him. They laughed at the insignificant scratch.
He cut again. She winced.
She cried out.
Bringing the blade down with careful precision he cut again. The blood flowed. She screamed. He knew he would love this creature for a time and know her for all time.
He reached across for the beeswax candle and held it above her. Tilting it carefully into the wound until the flow was staunched. Leaning down, he licked the rivulet that had flowed from below her shoulder blade down her side to the swell of her pressed breast. Her blood tasted different to his own.
“Blood of my blood,” he mouthed.
“Lust of my lust, soul of my soul. I drink from the blood that makes me whole.”
Sitting up, he cut again.
They sat in the bath, staring at each other. His tumescence evidence of their unfinished business.
“Did you forget Istanbul?”
“No, ” she grinned, “Tonight was perfect.”