Mort or Petit Mort?

It started as a joke. A bunch of college kids sitting around, having a laugh; a moronic hypothetical scenario.

What if we crossed a line? What if we did something that would require equal parts nerve and stupidity? What if, what if. That’s college for you; too much alcohol and not enough sense. In a world where people have become so careful, so safe, we wanted the high of doing something dangerous. Something most people would find insane, disturbing. To be honest, those people, these imaginary folks who served as my often-silenced voice of reason, wouldn’t have been wrong. It was disturbing. But once I got a taste, I couldn’t stop.

My bare back was to the room -- I’d discarded all my clothes from the waist up; I gripped each of the metal pipes to my right and left, my face inches from the stone wall in front of me. I wasn’t tied, not restrained in any way -- this was about discipline. This was about self-control, the power of will; this was about sex.

It was Nick’s turn this time; I watched him in the mirror above my head. He was looking over our collection of hunting knives that Kat had laid out for him. Nick looked them over carefully; he liked to try a new one every time. This week he picked up a Hirschfänger, a 20-inch straight blade used for killing deer.

I gripped both poles and kept my eyes on the mirror, watching Nick’s face, as the blade cut into my skin.

The room was so quiet I might as well have been underwater; no one spoke. I could hear my own heartbeat, and Nick’s breath against the back of my neck. He’d chosen to score a thin line along the inner edge of my shoulder blade. I could hear that almost-silent ripping sound that skin makes as it’s separated by a sharp blade. He went so slowly that every nerve ending in my body responded; my heart beat faster, my skin flushed. With every cut, my heart rate responded, kicking into high gear. My breathing started to come faster.

Almost twenty minutes passed; the only sound was my breathing. It could have been hours for all I knew, but I could see Jack’s stopwatch reflected in my mirror. I could feel the blood. Small drops gliding slowly, almost sensually down my back. I adjusted my fingers on the poles I was still clutching.

“Don’t let go,” Nick reminded me. “As soon as you let go, I stop.”

“She’s going to pass out,” Kat muttered.

“No she isn’t,” Nick replied, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

I gripped harder. I was close. Close to a record, too.

I was close.

He started at the base of my neck, and cut a winding path down my spine. My back arched against the knife; I started to shake. I didn’t move my hands or feet; there were rules.

He cut again, and again; the shaking was visible now. I could see my blood on the knife, see Nick’s face in the mirror. I could watch him watching me. I couldn’t let go now; I’d come so far.

The next cut came; just under the edge of my breast, then in a curve along my ribcage, all the way back to my spine. My whole body was tense now, a coiled spring.

Another cut, down the left side of my back, vertical.

Right side, winding.

I could feel the blood rushing to my ears.

Left side, horizontal.

My breathing came faster.

Right shoulder, horizontal.

My eyes lost focus.

Left side ribs, winding.

Finally I cried out, my body releasing all of its coiled tension. Nick stopped as I let my hands slide down and off the poles.

“New record,” Jack said from the other side of the room. “Twenty-two minutes, fifteen seconds, one orgasm.”

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