For a change, I'll write something inspired by a comment:
And why is this getting it's own post when I could have combined them? I'm not sure, probably because I like making posts.
Warning: You might be grossed out and turned on at the same time.
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He comes back again carrying a damp rag. She's still laying on the table, not making a sound even though her mouth is free. Her arms and legs aren't, they're securely strapped to the table in different ways, all after what he felt was appropriate when tying her up. Her left leg is fastened to the table leg with an old brown belt, pulling her legs apart.
"No need to worry," he mutters as he carefully wipes away the line of blood on her cheek. All of it won't come off, and her large eyes follow every tiny movement he makes. At least he think they are. He feel they are. "It's all right," he says with an edge in his voice. He's not quite sure what the edge is, but her eyes are making him nervous. She whimpers slightly and he realise he's scrubbing her cheek pretty hard. He lets go of the rag at once and picks up the knife again.
It's not the nicest knife he's seen in his life, just an old hunting knife with a black handle. Still, it will do. It will do more than fine. He's sharpened it and even polished it a bit, just for the occasion.
"Are you all right?" he asks tenderly and places his free hand on her stomach. She nods several times. "You sure?" he asks and looks back in her face to those bottomless blue pools.
"Y-yes," she stutters and surpresses a sob. He shakes his head slightly in disapproval and apply pressure to her stomach. She whinces and the sob escapes.
"That bad, huh?" he mutters before slowly moving down to her feet. They're naked, long and just as unsettling as her eyes. He can count the bones in them through the transparent pale skin and the nails are carefully clipped and polished. The sandals she had on when he found her are placed beside the table, the only thing they did was cover up the only good feature on her feet: the soles. Still, it's not the feet he's interested in.
The light blue summer dress she's wearing comes to a halt around her knees and he slowly place his hands on her knees to ruffle it up. His hands are so much bigger than her kneecaps, even if the kneecaps look big enough on her, and he knows his touch is warm and soothing to her. Another small sound escape her, but he doesn't pay attention to it as he lifts the light fabric to expose her underwear.
"You've had an accident, dear," he mutters and purses his lips as he see the iron-red crust between her legs. "You've probably ruined the dress."
"No! Please!" She's lifted her head and her large eyes are staring in terror at him while her voice cuts through his head. He slowly look up at her and feel a muscle near his eye twitch.
"I'm gonna clean you up," he says roughly and reach for the knife positioned between her feet. She let her head fall back again and luckily doesn't make any more sounds, although he can both see and feel how tense her muscles are. "Please relax," he adds in a calm voice and pets her thigh. She doesn't respond.
He cups his hand between her legs, feeling the warmth of the spilled blood curse up through his palm and into his arm as if it was the blood itself making its way towards his heart. She tries closing her legs for a moment, but he puts the hand he's holding the knife with on her knee and carefully separates them again before stroking his middle finger up along her sex and letting go. A quick shiver runs through her body.
"Don't worry," he mutters soothingly as he begin cutting off her underwear. It's no use trying to take it off with her legs tied, but at the same time it's too bad he has to ruin them by cutting them off. Well, they're partly ruined by the blood anyway. Or maybe not ruined, but he doesn't think she would want to wear them again either way, they're plain white and getting the stains out would be hard.
Slowly he peels back the fabric to reveal her. The source of the blood. She doesn't shave, that's easy to tell, but it's not much to shave anyway. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he holds the string that's got glued to the inside of the knickers by the blood between two fingers and pulls it free from the fabric. It's not time yet.
Her creases are filled with half-dried but still very warm blood. Every crease, and even a bit down on her thighs, although that could be from him undressing her. To him it's a lovely painting in rich pink, blood-red and crimson, filling him with a strange sense of pride.
He leans down slowly and kiss the inside of her thigh before slowly working his way upwards. Her muscles are tense and vibrating under the skin.
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I can't finish this now anyway, so I'll just leave it like it is for now and probably forget about it, sorry.
