Touch

Skin, pale on pale, writhed. A mouth would gasp, and be answered by the smashing lips of the other, fingers twisted into hair, and ecstasy engulfed. As most things in life, it had started as a lesson. Now, it was a lesson well learnt, or at least a lesson well remembered. Cain hadn’t intended on this, hadn’t expected Isaak to take it so well. Cain had been prepared for a struggle, and it did not come. Isaak writhed beneath him, and moaned, but it had not been what Cain had wanted, or expected.

Cain had pictured Isaak uncomfortable and fidgeting, younger and more innocent than he was, and afraid. Isaak was none of these things. His skilled hands had gladly accepted the invitation Cain had given earlier, running along Cain’s arm and torso, playing out a silent melody.

In clumsy fumbling moments, they’d found themselves naked, pressed together, Cain taking, and Isaak giving, his life, his wealth, his soul. Isaak gave Cain everything, and never regretted it, never missed it.

Cain wanted more.

Cain wanted to hear Isaak squeal, or see him when he wasn’t so perfectly composed and under control. Cain wanted to feel something, some dripping innocence being shredded that was unobtainable, that Isaak could never have.

Blood and sweat slicked they lie, the air lingering against their flesh, replaying their sins. Isaak smiles, even though he knows it is the wrong thing to do. Cain stares, unbelieving at the ceiling.