How I Found out That I Have a Knife Fetish

When you know you have nothing to be scared of, fear can be an aphrodisiac

I realized this the first time I ‘played’ with a raging sadist from the BDSM scene; he was an ex-military interrogator working as a prison engineer.

I know what you’re thinking; “what was she thinking?”. Truth is, I wasn’t, really.

Instead, I was driven by intuition and instinct; running on pure adrenaline, months after breaking out of an abusive relationship and plunging, headfirst, into my own personal sexual revolution.

I was on fire!

Infamous in the scene, I’d seen the guy in action, once, at my first kink party: Dressed in a classy suit and fingerless gloves, with a full beard and black hair in a bun, he put on quite the show. Swinging the bullwhip with such precision, it looked like he’d been born with the thing in his hand; the naked woman he was beating, attached by cuffs to the ceiling, was screaming in what sounded like a mix of anguish and ecstasy.

I’d never seen anything like it. I was in awe. And, the first thing I thought was:

—Where do I sign up?

A few weeks later I received a DM from him that said something along the lines of:

—When will you kneel at my feet?

—How bout next Saturday? I responded, confidently.

For the record, I did background-check him. I was a noob, not a moron. The handful of women I spoke with had all come out of it alive—and, would all do it again in a heartbeat.

Walking to my place after the comedy show where we met, I happened to walk a step ahead of him. With ninja-speed, he reacted by pushing me up against a light pole and held a massive combat knife to my throat.

I swallowed.

—Fuck, he’s not fucking around.

A heatwave flooded my groin.

—Yes, Sir, I nodded.

—It’s ‘Master’ to you, little girl, he corrected.

—Yes, Master! I sissed back, raising my chin to look deep into his dark eyes, fighting to wipe the defying smirk off my face.

—I don’t like brats, he said plainly. Girls know better than to be brats with me.

I wanted to laugh at him, because, as much as I played along, I found the whole thing pretty ludicrous. Instead, I decided I’d better keep my mouth shut.

I wasn’t really afraid of him; I knew I’d come out of this in one piece. But, I also knew was that he was about to beat the crap out of me, and I had no idea what to expect, so I played it ‘safe’. (You know, within the parameters).

He pulled the knife at me again before we made it home. I must have ‘forgotten’ to keep my place. Or, more likely, I longed to feel the flush of heat to my crotch once more…

Once there, he emptied his bowling-bag of tools onto my floor, and as I freshened up in the bathroom, he arranged each item on a large area rug for me to behold.

—Not bad, I winked.

I got what he was up to; he was trying to scare me, but I didn’t flinch—not visibly, at least. The truth was, I was shaking in my stilettos by now. Simultaneously, I was wildly aroused.

What a peculiar medley of emotions!

I’d never seen half the stuff before: canes, paddles and whips, belts, chains, stuff with studs. And knives. Three of them. One larger than the next.

With all that gear, and his 6 foot-something, brawny frame, he looked like he was about to battle Godzilla—not a 5'5" lady in fishnet stay-ups.

What followed is too gratuitous, and surely too graphic to describe in words, but I took it all, ass up, clenching the wings of my leather-clad Queen Anne.

It was then that he brought it; the knife—the biggest and baddest of them all.

Starting at the nape of my neck, he gently trailed my spine to the small of my back, then, down my asscrack to grace the edges of my outer labia.

I shivered, but kept still, knowing that a jerk could break my skin.

Slick droplets slid down my inner thigh, and the big, bad wolf replaced the knife with two warm fingers, which were immediately devoured by my wetness.

Enveloping my chest to pull me against him, he whispered in my ear:

—You like my knives, don’t you?

Then, he fed me a small sample of the proof…

I’ll let you imagine the rest as well, but, yes, it did end on a sweet note. And, to those who were worried about me for a minute; while I was certainly sore, I was soaring!

Among many things, I learned from this night that knives turn me on.

It’s not the knife itself obviously—you won’t find me all flustered in the kitchen department.

When it comes to playing with BDSM—and here, in a rather extreme way—trust is paramount. Giving someone this extent of power takes the utmost faith; you must surrender to the knowledge that, while someone could severely harm you, they won’t.

In the midst of this, no matter how wholeheartedly you trust, is a teeny-tiny fragment of fear, that keeps repeating; “what if?”.

The scientific explanation

Our bodies' reaction to fear is similar to what they do when we’re aroused. In either case our breathing and heart rate increases, causing peripheral blood vessels to constrict, and central blood vessels around vital organs to dilate. (Source)

Both fear and arousal also cause us to produce higher levels of endorphins and adrenaline.

It’s in the sliver of uncertainty; of fear, where the appeal of the knife lies: In this knowing, yet never really being able to know for sure, exists the thrill of one of my most twisted kinks: Knives turn me on.