Mack II: Edge Ritual

The room was still.

Mack’s skin was flushed, his tank sticking slightly to his chest, the faint scent of steel and oil hanging in the air. The knife lay on the table beside him now—resting. Watching. It didn’t need to be in his hand anymore. It had done its work.

He reached down, slowly, and undid the top button of his jeans. Then the second. The zip was loud in the silence. Intentional. Deliberate.

He wasn’t rushing.

This wasn’t the frantic, impatient jerk-off of teenage years. This was slow worship. A build-up he’d been craving all week—no, longer. A whole life of keeping it quiet. Keeping it hidden. Now he let it bloom.

His cock was hard, thick, leaking slightly against the fabric of his briefs. He pressed his palm against it—not stroking yet—just grounding himself in the heat of it. The pressure. The need.

The Ka-Bar sat just to his right. Not forgotten. Just witness.

He slid his jeans down a little, enough to free himself. He liked that moment. The reveal. The quiet gasp of air he always took when he saw himself like this—hard, flushed, alive. A body responding to a feeling that didn’t need words.

One hand wrapped around himself. The other stayed on the table, fingers resting next to the blade’s handle. Close enough to feel that echo of power. Of memory.

He stroked slowly, base to tip, hips lifting just slightly with the rhythm. Not rough. Not soft either. Controlled. His breaths deepened, chest rising with each exhale. He let his head tilt back again, eyes closed, mouth open. A low sound slipped out—half moan, half growl.

His thumb slid over the head, spreading slick. The knife hadn’t touched him, not directly. But it was there. In his mind. Under his skin. The idea of it—the weight, the precision, the trust he gave it—was wound into every stroke now.

He pictured the cool metal grazing his throat. The flat edge down his spine. That delicious tension between risk and restraint. He knew he could go harder. He also knew he wouldn’t. The line wasn’t in the blood. The line was in the discipline.

Another stroke. Slower this time. He dragged it out, tightening his grip, hips jerking slightly now. That familiar heat coiled low in his stomach.

He let his fingers ghost over the table, brushing the leather of the sheath.

The sound he made when he came wasn’t loud—but it was raw. Guttural. A deep, aching relief as his body pulsed in his hand, spilling over his knuckles and down his wrist. He kept stroking, slower now, working through it, dragging out every last flicker of sensation until his body finally stilled.

Then—only then—he let go.

Silence returned like a held breath released. The air felt thicker somehow. More real.

He sat for a moment, chest heaving, eyes closed, knife still beside him like a silent witness to his truth.

Then he stood, grabbed a towel, and wiped himself down.

No shame. No guilt. Just heat. Relief. Satisfaction.

He cleaned the knife last—always last. Polished it slowly. Lovingly. Pressed a kiss to the spine before sliding it back into the sheath.

Then he turned out the light.