The weight of my newest blade is a comfort in my palm, its edge whispering promises of control. It’s been a day of restless energy—my mind oscillating between the pages of Lolita and the memory of last night. How his fingers dug into my hips, how my cunt ached as he fucked me raw against the bookshelf. The way he choked me just right, his cock buried to the hilt while I clawed at his back… I bit his shoulder so hard he bled. He called me ‘unhinged.’ As if he didn’t love it.

But now? Silence. Just the knife’s cold kiss and the scent of Earl Grey lingering. I wonder if he’ll text. I wonder if I’ll let him live if he doesn’t.

(Art under the cut: a vintage dagger beside a half-empty teacup.)