Mack III: The Knock

It was 10:42pm when someone knocked on Mack’s door.

Not the loud, casual knock of a mate. Not the light rap of a delivery guy. Three steady knocks. Then quiet.

He sat still for a moment. Shirtless, still flushed from earlier. The knife was cleaned, resting on the desk beside him. The scent of oil still hung in the air.

He thought about ignoring it.

But something in him stirred. Something curious. Alert. He tucked himself back into his jeans, grabbed a hoodie off the chair, and moved to the door.

It was Jo.

He didn’t hide his surprise. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said. No small talk. Her eyes flicked past him, into the room, taking in the dim light, the disarray. She looked... different tonight. Hair pulled back, face bare, shoulders set.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“I had a dream about you.”

He blinked. “What kind of dream?”

“The kind where I woke up soaked and couldn’t stop thinking about your hands.” She tilted her head slightly. “Can I come in?”

Mack stepped aside without a word.

Jo didn’t ask where to sit. She went straight to the table. Saw the knife. Picked it up.

He stiffened. “Careful.”

“I am,” she said. She turned it slowly in her hand, studying it—not with fear, but fascination. “You polish it?”

“Every time.”

She nodded. “I thought so.”

Mack watched her like he was watching a bomb technician. She wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t scared. She wasn’t even testing him. She was seeing him.

“You get off on this?” she asked.

He held her gaze. “Yes.”

“Not hurting people?”

“No.”

“You?”

“Not like you think.” A pause. “It’s about tension. Control. The edge of something.”

Jo smiled faintly. “I’ve never done anything like that. But I’ve thought about it.” She placed the knife back on the table, slowly, deliberately. “Can I stay?”

Mack didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward. Took the knife and placed it back in its sheath. Then looked her in the eye.

“If you stay, it’s not for show. It’s not a kink scene. I don’t play for performance.”

“I know,” she said.

“It’s private.”

“I know that too.”

Something in his chest loosened. He nodded once. “Then stay.”

She didn’t reach for him. She just sat down in the chair across from him, legs apart, posture open. Comfortable.

Mack sat too. Pulled the blade back out, slowly. Held it. And for the first time, he let someone watch him hold it the way he really did—tender, reverent. No bravado. No posing.

Jo watched quietly, her breath slowing, body softening. She wasn’t aroused the way he was—not yet. But she was captivated. Present.

“Show me how it feels,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He pressed the flat of the blade to his own chest, under the hoodie, against bare skin. A small sigh left his lips.

She watched his eyes flutter shut, the way his hand flexed, the way he swallowed thickly.

“Fuck,” she murmured. “It’s real for you.”

“It always has been.”

And just like that, the room shifted. The air got heavier. Warmer. Not about sex—not yet—but about exposure. Ritual. Intimacy.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

And that was the real turn-on.