Sabatier

Disclaimer: I don't know the band, have never met them and probably never have. All of the following is a complete fabrication, and I have no idea what Rammstein get up to behind closed doors.
On with the bloodplay!

Flake stands before me, holding the knife and, of all things, a salt cellar. The knife I can understand. It's what we agreed to. Part of me wishes vaguely that we'd never got onto the subject of sexual fantasies over vodka in the hotel bar.

I had admitted to my fantasy of being cut, and Flake, sadistic bastard that he is, offered to fulfil it. We didn't leave until we'd found out just why Richard does wear all that nail polish. He and Schneider left together soon after, Schneider whispering something about Rimmel. Olli had mumbled that he had a thing about long hair, and then avoided looking at Flake. Paul took a swig of vodka and, looking at Olli out of the corner of his eye, said he adored bones - collarbones, hip bones, wrist bones in particular. I remembered the Mein Teil video shoot - Olli's bones made prominent by the contortions of his body. I don't know if they paired off though, but by the shy looks they were giving each other I'm guessing they did.

Frankly I don't give a damn at the moment, because neither of them are handcuffed by hands and feet to a hotel bed, and neither of them has a naked, aroused sadist holding a knife at the end of said bed.

He steps forward now, and I strain my body against the cuffs, sweating from the lack of air conditioning and animal lust, rubbing my wrists against the metal in hope of breaking the skin. He grins, and lowers the knife until the blade, a beautiful Sabatier, brushes against the skin of my stomach. I inhale sharply with the electricity of the sensation, the intake of breath pressing my skin harder against the metal. Flake seems to pause, and then makes the tiniest nick with the point of the knife, the tiny, quick sensation of pain curling quickly through my nerves and down to my cock. I groan, and thrust my hips in the air.

He looks up at me, seeming to check that I still want this. I only have to growl one word: "More". Then the blade flashes in the light, and I have a stinging ribbon down the centre of my chest, already forming droplets of blood. He places the knife almost lovingly at the end of the cut, and presses deep into my skin, and I hiss as he drags the blade slowly down the length of the cut, sending bolts of arousal and pain around my body. Blood trickles out of the wound and down my side, slowly staining the bed sheet with a small crimson pool.

He's still got that fucking salt cellar - where he got that from, I've no idea. He puts down the knife on the bed, and pours a small mound of salt into his left palm. Putting the cellar on the bedside table, he takes a pinch of salt and moves his hand over the cut on my chest. I can guess what he's going to do, and I can't stop myself yelling as he rubs the salt into the deep cut. It burns like hell, and I have tears in my eyes, but I still want more of this exquisite pain. He slowly rubs in more salt, continuing down the cut until his palm is empty, and the trickles of blood still running down my side leave trails of salt crystals on my skin.

I'm so close now that one touch could bring me to orgasm, and Flake seems to know this all too well. He picks up the knife and moves down my body to below the first nick, to my cock that aches for release. He smiles, an evil smile that makes his eyes glitter, and, never taking his eyes off my face, opens his mouth and licks obcenely up the shaft, at the same time touching the cold metal point of the knife to the sensitive tip. I am undone; I explode over the edge with a shout, coating the knife and Flake's mouth.

Licking his lips, he suddenly moves up the bed and sucks hungrily at the deep, salty wound on my chest. He raises his head, looks at me, and pounces, crumpling his mouth against mine, teeth biting at my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. I respond to this animalistic version of a kiss, opening my mouth and allowing his tongue to grapple with mine for supremacy. He tastes of salt and metal, and the cheap vodka we've been drinking.

He pulls away, and picks up a small key from the bedside table. He unlocks my feet first, and as soon as my hands are free I grab him and kiss him senseless. I reach down between our bodies and with a few quick movements of my hand he comes over my wrist and thighs, moaning into my mouth.

Panting gently as my breathing returns to normal, holding Flake close to my body, I suddenly realise something.

"Flake?"

"Hmm?"

"You never told us what your fantasy is."

He seems to find this funny and collapses into a fit of giggles. When he recovers, he says, with a tone of humour,

"Just the whole sadistic thing really. You know me, nothing too kinky."

"But there must be something specific," I press, wanting to find out how I can repay him for what he's done for me.

"There is one thing, but I've already done it."

"Well, what was it?"

He yawns. "Kissing you."

I try to find an appropriate response to this, but my exhausted brain can only think of sleep, so I compensate by strengthening my arms around him, and listening to him breathe as we slip into a sated sleep.