The knife.
I revel in it. The gentle touch of it against my skin as He teases me, the more intense scratchings as He prepares to draw blood. The metal, cold at first, heats to the presence of my body, and I miss its chill. Then it bites and the warm red fluid spreads out from its sting. It bathes me in its essence, and I am cleansed. He brings His lips to the source, tasting me, drinking the sticky salt liquid, so much darker, so much thicker than His usual preference. He moves His face closer to mine and I can see the single drop of myself falling from the corner of His lips. His smile shows that I have pleased Him, His eyes speak that I am His as He takes all of me into Himself.
Laters