PAPER CUTS

Chapter 1

I think it's safe to assume that every person reading this story has at least one fetish.  If you're like lots of people, you probably have no idea why you have such a thing, or at least that's what the psychologists seem to think.

In my own case, though, I know exactly why my particular fetish now occupies my thoughts several times during the day, and always when I'm engaged in sexual relations with my husband, and my lover, during the night.  In addition, I can trace the beginnings of my "affliction" to a single event, and even though that event occurred almost 20 years ago, I still recall every detail.

It happened when I was in the sixth grade, exactly 63 days following my 12th birthday (see, I told you it was still strong in my memory).  Up until that time, I was just another average girl in a class of eleven boys and ten girls.  As is probably true in most girls of that age, my breasts were starting to develop, and my thoughts occasionally turned to boys.  Most of us had a general idea of what was involved in making babies, although some probably didn't really believe it.  Since my parents were both college educated, and had incorporated the "facts of life" in everyday stuff for as long as I could remember, I wasn't one of the non-believers.

There was one particular boy in my class whose name was Ryan.  He had been in our school for less than a year at that time, and hadn't ever really fit in.  Everybody knew him, but nobody considered him a friend.  It's not that the rest of us were mean to him, or anything like that.  It's just that he was very shy, and seemed to be tongue tied most of the time.  I'm sure you've known kids like that, and how they always seem to be on the edges of groups, but never a part of them.

It was in early October when the seminal event took place, and it involved Ryan and me.  We were both in the classroom after school was out for the day, doing some chores for the teacher.  It wasn't considered a punishment to be kept after school, since nearly everybody loved our teacher very much, and we welcomed every chance to stay late and help her with things.  That's what Ryan and I were doing that day.

The teacher had gone to the office to turn in the attendance sheets.  I was cleaning the chalkboard and Ryan was picking up paper scraps around the paper cutter that was mounted at waist level on a table by the side wall.  Every classroom had one of the cutters, and ours was nothing special.  It was a small platform about two feet square, with cross-hatched lines on it that were used as guides when cutting sheets of paper.  The cutting was done by a long metal arm that pivoted on one end, and had a loop handle on the other.  To use the thing, the paper was put under the arm, which was brought quickly down to do the trimming with its sharp blade.

Something caused me to turn to look at Ryan just at the moment he was holding his left hand flat on the cutting table, with one finger sticking over the edge, right under the blade.  His other hand was slowly moving toward the handle.

I remember being frozen in place, unable to move or even make a sound.  I still recall every detail of that scene, as he brought the blade down across his protruding finger.  I'll never forget the sound the blade made as it impacted the bone, and then completed the cut without stopping.  His finger seemed to fall in slow motion, and I can still see it hit the floor and roll a short distance before coming to a rest.

Ryan never said a word, but just stared at me as he clutched his wounded hand to his chest.  I think it was the sight of blood on his shirt that finally brought me out of my trance, and I screamed the teacher's name and ran out the door to find her.

She was walking up the hallway then, returning from the office.  I don't know what I said to her, but it made her run into the room.  As soon as she saw what had happened, she grabbed Ryan and carried him as fast as she could to the nurse's station.

I had been standing several feet away from him then, and when the teacher picked him up, I saw that the front of his tan-colored trousers, right at the crotch, was covered with blood.  He had apparently squeezed his injured hand between his legs, as people will sometimes do, but my brain interpreted it as something else.

What flashed through my brain then was the image of Ryan taking down his pants, laying his little penis on the cutting board, and bringing the blade down across it.  The thing laying on the floor, which when I had run screaming from the room had been his finger, was for several seconds his penis.  I even walked closer to it, staring in fascination.  Finally my brain interpreted the scene correctly, and I knew once again that it really was a finger laying there.

I don't know what became of Ryan, because he never came back to our school.  I suppose the teachers would have given us that information if anyone had bothered to ask, but no one did.  He just disappeared from our lives, and because none of us really knew him, he wasn't missed for very long.  About the only change that occurred because of his "accident" (that's what everyone said it was, although I knew better) was that the paper cutters in all the classrooms were rigged with some sort of locking mechanism, and only the teachers were allowed to use them.

And that was the end of it.  Or at least that's what everybody else thought.  They went on with their lives, just as if Ryan had never existed.  Everybody, that is, but me.  I simply couldn't stop thinking about what I'd witnessed, and what I thought Ryan had done to himself when I had run from the room to get help.

I became a woman that winter, as evidenced by the first spots of blood on my panties.  At that same time, my thoughts turned more and more to boys, and those wondrous things hiding in their pants.  As could be expected, thoughts like that were usually present when I lay in my bed at night, preparing for sleep.

Many were the nights when I invented childish fantasies involving the boys in my school, usually imagining one of them there in my bed.  We would explore each other's bodies, and his touch would bring me to higher and higher levels of excitement, until finally the touch of my middle finger between my legs brought me to orgasm.  I never tired of masturbating, and think I probably did it at least once every day after I had my first period.

As you can probably guess, I also fantasized about what had happened to Ryan, and in my fantasies it was never his finger that had been severed, but rather his penis.  At first, he had merely dropped his trousers, placed his limp little thing on the cutting board, and then brought down the handle.

Before long, he had completely undressed and then played with his cock to make it hard.  After he'd achieved the largest erection possible, he'd stepped close to the paper cutter and very slowly and sensuously cut it from his body.  I remember having my orgasm virtually every time I thought of his severed penis laying on the cutting board.  Of course, in my imagination, there was very little blood, and his thing always stayed hard as a rock after it was removed.  Like I said, they were fantasies.

I don't know when it happened, but would guess I was thirteen when my fantasy became much more personal.  In the altered version, I was the one who undressed Ryan and stimulated him to erection, which by that time was so large that it stretched completely across the two-feet wide surface.

It was my hand that lovingly held his monstrous cock in position beneath the blade.  Most of all, it was my hand that grasped the handle and slowly brought it down to his eagerly-waiting member.  And through it all, it was my hand between my legs, there in my solitary bed, that brought me to that peak of ecstasy we all know so well.

Even when I started dating at age 15, my fantasy was always with me.  About the only change was that Ryan was replaced by whoever I was dating at the time.  It didn't matter who it was, how much I liked him, or even what we did on our dates, and later on in his parked car.  When it came time for me to masturbate, he was standing in front of the paper cutter, his cock at full staff and laid out on the cutting board.  I seemed to have a one-track mind on that matter, and still do.

I met my future husband in college, where we were both students.  We studied together, since we both had the same majors, and then began dating.  At some point in time, we decided to get married after graduation, and that's what we did.  We found jobs in a large city in Colorado, and moved there and set up housekeeping and got on with our lives.

I suppose our relationship was different than most, in a special way.  Although neither of us thought it odd at the time, I know in retrospect that every decision we made was actually made by me.  When we were dating, I choose the movie or the restaurant.  When we decided to get married, I chose the date and the place.  When we accepted our jobs, I decided which jobs we'd accept.  When we chose our house, again the decision was mine.  I don't think there was ever any conscious decision to put me in charge.  David never seemed to care, one way or the other, and he always deferred to me.  I guess I took charge by default.

We lived average lives in every way, except for one small thing "normal" people would think odd.  That small thing involved our sex lives, and as you can probably guess, I was in charge there also.  I decided when we would have sex, and what kind of sex it would be.  David had the choice of either doing as I wanted, or finding some other place to live.  So, I guess you could say he actually did make a decision, since he apparently decided he wanted to stay with me.

Another of my decisions was that I didn't want to have children.  I have nothing against the little buggers, but know implicitly that I'm not "mother" material.  It's for the best that I never got pregnant, since I wouldn't have fit that role at all well.  David has never suggested that we have children, so I guess that once again he chose to follow my lead.

I mention that particular thing as a way of leading up to the next part of my story.  That being, since I didn't want to get pregnant, birth control pills had been a regular part of my life since I became sexually active as a teenager.  That means, of course, that David had never used a rubber when we fucked, and I always liked the feeling of a bare cock and am sure he did too.

The reason that's important is that it demonstrates another way in which I was in charge.  You see, before I consented to marry him, I made David agree that my orgasms were just as important as his.  I'm sure when he accepted that premise he didn't know what it actually meant, but he learned that very night.

He, like most men I've known, has a short trigger when it comes to orgasm.  It sometimes seemed that not much more than the head of his penis had entered me when he climaxed.  Of course, that left me hanging, and I definitely did not like that feeling.  My condition to him was my way of making sure that I would enjoy sex just as much as he did.

I remember our lovemaking session that night.  We had engaged in the usual foreplay, and then he had mounted me in what is commonly known as the "missionary" position.  I think he was very conscious of the vow he'd made earlier that day, and seemed to be trying with all his willpower to delay his orgasm.  However, I had decided that I was going to test his resolve, and consciously delayed my own climax.  Meanwhile, I talked "dirty" to him, which he always loved, telling him how good it felt to have his little wee-wee in my hot cunt (it always seemed to make him hotter when I belittled his tool), and wished I could feel it squirting right then.

That put him over the edge, and in no time at all his hips were bucking as he shot his load in me.  I knew that I'd have to act quickly, before he had a chance to cool down, or he would lose his enthusiasm for pleasing me by keeping his promise.

As soon as he completed his last spasm, I said, "I didn't cum.  You promised you'd make me cum too.  Now do it."  I placed both hands on his shoulders and began pushing him down my body.  It took him a split second to realize what I expected of him, and I could feel him make a slight resistance.

I said, "You promised.  If you don't do it, get out of this bed and don't ever come back."

Even though he was still reluctant, my threat, combined with his still being partly turned on was enough to get him moving again.  I continued to push him toward my waiting, cum-filled pussy, and finally his head was there.  I spread my legs and said simply, "Do it!"

I'll never forget the thrill I felt as his tongue took that first tentative swipe.  He apparently decided that the taste wasn't as bad as he'd feared, and began to lick faster.  Before long, he was performing almost as well as he did when he ate me during foreplay.

The feel of his questing tongue and lips on my hot vagina soon had me turned on once again.  As I listened to the sound of his throat working as it swallowed his mouthfuls, my own orgasm swept over me.  I don't think I'll ever forget the feeling of power I experienced that night.  For the first time ever, I'd made him do something he didn't want to, and I loved the feeling it gave me.  I decided I wanted to have that feeling lots more in the years to come.

I'm not sure at which point in our marriage I made the conscious decision to train my husband to share my sexual fantasy.  We've been married almost twelve years now, so I guess it must have been somewhere around our tenth wedding anniversary.  By that time, like most married couples, we seemed to be more and more bored with our time in bed.  I made up my mind to do something to liven things up, so to speak, and set out on my campaign to pass my fetish along to my husband.

The Internet is probably the best thing that's ever happened, in terms of providing material for spicing up our lives.  So, that's where I turned to put my plan in motion.

Up until that time, we had used our computer for transferring files between our home and our workplace, but not much else.  We did very little surfing on the Web, although I knew from talking to my friends just how much sexually-related stuff was available from that source.  After asking around, I had a list of search engines that were sex related, and started my search there.

For the first time in my life, I realized that my fantasy of using a paper cutter to remove a man's penis was actually pretty mild.  After concentrating my surfing on S&M Websites, I saw example after example of just how "vanilla" my wet dreams were.  I was when I narrowed my search to subjects concerning penectomies that I hit paydirt, and the stories, artwork, and photos on that topic were very exciting to me.  I have to admit, though, that even with the wealth of stuff available, I never did find as story or photo that used a paper cutter as the "weapon" of choice.  I guess in that way I was still unique.

What I did find, though, was very arousing to me.  The photos were the best of all, especially the ones that showed full-frontal poses of men who had full sets of balls, but no cocks.  I'm sure the majority of them had been altered, but that didn't decrease the excitement I felt when looking at them.  The closeup views of men's crotches, showing the little stubs that remained, or better yet, nothing at all, seemed to inflame me even more.  Many were the times I would find my right hand slipping inside my pants while I stared at the exciting images.

Finding the stories and photographs was the east part.  Coming up with a way to get my husband to also "find" them, and then to become as fascinated with the idea as I was, was the hard part.  I racked my brain for several weeks before finally deciding to just take the direct approach, and that's what I did the next weekend.