Somewhat Clear

Logue liked the color of blood on his Master’s pretty skin. It beaded up slowly, like little dark pearls, from hair-thin scratches deep enough just to call the dense fluid. It smeared rich and intense against both their skin tones, when he wiped it away with his fingers. Instinctively, he brought his thumb to his mouth, eager to taste it—

“No, Logue,” his Master stopped him. There was amusement in his soft voice, languid and distant. “Be obedient. What did I say?” Logue bit his lip, but he didn’t lick his finger. He shifted back to his knees, and went back to his task.

He raised his blade again, candle light glancing off its polished surface; it was a beautiful weapon, a gift from his Master, a prized possession. Always sharp, never needing to be taken care of—though Logue still did it when he was allowed to, because something deep inside his chest told him that it would make his Master happy, and his Master’s happiness made the stitches hurt less.

He placed the wicked tip against his Master’s bare leg, just a finger-width away from the nearest scratch, pressed it in the soft flesh until another pretty drop beaded up, a spot of light shaping it into a dark red jewel. He looked up, to check on his Master: his head was tilted back, his eyes a sliver of shiny black, his long throat bared for Logue; his cock was hard between his legs, mounting different jewels against his belly. It was a good reaction.

He watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall—and he dragged the blade downwards, so that the only noise coming from his Master’s lips was a startled, joyful gasp, just like he’d taught Logue.

His master had taught him many things. “Fools are the ones who have been using you as a butcher, when you’re the finest tool I’ve ever set my eyes upon,” he’d told him, and had made him into something new.

He pushed his finger against the new wound, careful not to make it bleed too much but just rough enough to make the skin move. His master choked out a wispy laughter, cock twitching against his hip, and leaned forward towards Logue, a smile on his face. His hand found Logue’s cheek, traced the line that cut up his mouth.

“I love how light your hand is. The finest tool in my arsenal,” he murmured. “Do it again.”

Logue raised his blade, and forgot about his stitches again.