When you stick your hand down someone’s pants, it should mean something.

When you fist that hand around the throbbing cock and pump frantically, there’s an implicit level of closeness there.

When the wash of warm fluid runs over spent flesh and onto aching fingers and seeps through to form a stain, it signifies the bond that you two share.

Or does it?

Now, you look at that face you’ve seen contorted in ecstasy contort with rage, foreign and frightening.  The face of a lover gone over, where the only physicality that matters is violence when he runs you through.

~

When the hand snakes it’s way under your boxers, you wonder what he’s playing at.

When those seemingly fragile fingers become steel as they play with your manhood, you think playing might not cover it.

As your mind blanks and you loose a sigh, feeling him do the same next to you, you think you might be able to get used to this.

Or can you?

When the other he enters, intrinsically changes you, none of that matters anymore.  The only steel you’re interested in is the blade you hold, cutting down the one you’d just learned to hold dear.