Hopefully a picture will be forthcoming, but until then, a little tale ...
The bone handle fits comfortably in the palm of my hand, the scrim-work long rubbed down to mere hints of the fine detail it once was. The warmth the the blade as I draw the flat over the backs of my fingers sends a shiver of anticipatory delight through me and, as ever, I cannot understand how they say, when asked, how cold the blade feels.
They cannot understand, the warmth it holds, the sensual warmth it imparts as you hold it against the quivering flesh of the girl before you. When words have ended the blade comes out. When they finally understand that the words they have heard are nothing but truth, what is going to take place, what indignities their lithe bodies are going to endure. Their eyes widen and moisten as tears start to trickle down pretty cheeks, unwilling to accept their fate or to acknowledge that in a very short time that they are going to find the outermost limits of pleasure that their bodies can withstand.
That it will then be their turn for words, words of supplication, begging, pleading for the final release from their predicament, softly urgent words spilling over plump lips, dry from their cries of forbidden pleasure.
It is time. The door opens and the welcoming shadows greet and engulf me in their warm embrace as I step out into the night.