The picture was of a trans man, jeans slung low on their hips, fly open to reveal his prick. A leather vest opened over his bare chest, top-surgery scars still healing. Her heart was still bruised from the Sarah incident. It was a six-month tragedy in three acts, complete with betrayal and judgment disguised as concern. The mere thought of opening up about her particular needs brought all the cluster-fuckery to the surface. He didn’t tease me first that time. He slid his sheathed cock into me in one deft thrust, filling me completely. I keened, high and breathy, and slammed my hand on the cutting board when he reached my limits. (Don’t worry, the knife was put away by then.) The knock jolted me into a sitting position, heart racing, the old fear of the dark and bogeymen still enough to send a tingle of adrenaline through my limbs. One part of my brain knew it must be Isaac but still it took me so long to get up off the floor and move to the door that the knock came again just as I started to undo the deadbolt.
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