Mack: Alone

Mack didn’t need porn.

He needed polish. The soft cloth. The weight of steel in his hand. The exact balance of a good blade, solid and responsive. He needed time—quiet, deliberate time—to take himself apart with it.

Tonight, it was the Ka-Bar. Seven inches of matte black fixed steel, the kind of knife people carried when they meant business. Not new—he didn’t like them new. He liked them worn in. Carried. Known.

He locked the door behind him. Not because he was hiding, but because this part of himself deserved privacy. A sacred kind.

He laid everything out on the table: the knife, the leather strop, the oil, the cloth. His fingertips twitched slightly as he ran one hand over the blade’s flat. It was cool. Clean. Still.

Then he sat back in the chair, legs spread wide, chest rising under the plain white tank he always wore for this. He never did this naked. Naked was too vulnerable. This was something else. A ritual.

He took the knife in his hand, thumb grazing the spine, slow. Intimate. He knew every groove in it. Every scrape. The slight unevenness in the handle where the grip had worn smooth.

He held it up to the light and breathed out through his nose, slow and steady. His cock stirred—not from friction, but from the weight in his hand, the way the steel reflected the lamplight in clean, hard lines.

This wasn’t about violence. It never had been. He didn’t think about stabbing or slicing, not really. He thought about presence. Steel didn’t lie to you. A knife was honest. You held it wrong, it would let you know. You brought tension to the grip, it bit. You handled it well, and it responded like something alive.

He rested the flat of the blade against his inner forearm. Cool against warm. He didn’t press. Just felt the contrast. Sensation humming through him like the low throb of bass.

His other hand slid to his thigh. Not touching anything directly—just grounding himself. He let his head fall back for a moment, eyelids heavy, lips parted. He pictured himself as others saw him—big, broad, rough jawline, thick neck. The kind of guy people thought didn’t feel much. They didn’t know about this.

Didn’t know how he could get hard from the sound a blade made being unsheathed.

Didn’t know he could moan just from the ritual of oiling the spine.

He didn’t need fantasy. He needed friction—of steel against skin. The right amount of pressure. The discipline to hold back. The slow drag of the handle across his sternum. His nipples were hard beneath the cotton, and when the base of the hilt grazed one, he inhaled sharply.

That was enough.

He let himself shift forward in the chair, legs still wide, the blade now resting across his stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. The denim tented. He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. Not yet. Just the weight of the knife there—like a secret lover, like something loyal and dangerous and real—was enough to keep him throbbing.

He whispered to it sometimes. Not out loud, not exactly. But in his head. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

He imagined being seen like this. By someone who understood. Not judged. Not scared. Someone who could witness the way his jaw clenched as he dragged the knife gently across his abdomen, not cutting—never cutting—but grazing, like a mark left by an old friend.

He rolled his hips once. A slow grind. Breath shaky now. Sweat on the back of his neck.

He placed the knife down gently.

Ran both hands through his hair, thick and cropped short, and exhaled. He was hard, aching, almost done for—and he hadn’t touched himself once.

This was his edge. And he lived for it.