It was a cold, damp morning that Sweeney opened his eyes to. But then, so wasn't every morning? He could see the steam of his breath in the air as he lifted his body and began moving around the hovel he called his bedroom. His eyes immediately fell to his friend, laying across from him on the bed. "Oh, my friend, even in this cold, you are still warm in my hand", he gasped as he raised the blade of his favorite razor, Butterfield, to his lips, softly kissing him. "Rest now, and I'll bring you breakfast in bed." he laid him down, and the razor winked bawdily in the light, setting his blood aflame.
"O, cruel master, why do you tease me so? I'm not up to it this early in the morning!"
Sweeney got up and went downstairs. There was that bitch Mrs. Lovett. Always hanging around, wanting to go to the beach and shit. Didn't she know there was no room in his heart...for two loves?
"Aw, love, you've finally come down! I thought you was on your deathbed last night, all that moaning and groaning I heard upstairs. I would o' come to check on you, only my pies was in the oven and I didn't want 'em to burn. You know 'ow it is."
He smiled. Yes, that was just as well, for the sight she would have seen would have surely shocked her, and perhaps had him carted off to bedlam. But oh the joy, the ecstasy of it... the gleaming silver and shining rubies...
He remembered the joy he felt as Butterfield first came to life within his hand the night before. It was like a dream, a wonderful dream. One moment, he was using him during his bi-nightly shave, and the next, he was truly a human being! As he saw him on the other side of the room, blond hair shining, muscles gleaming, full lips parted, he thought he must have been sent an angel.
"What...what is this? How can this be?" he asked the razor-man.
The blond vision only raised a finger to his lips, puckering them sensuously. "Don't ask questions." He approached him, putting his hands upon his shoulders, and kissing him full on the mouth.
"But...but...what may I call you?" Sweeney panted after a long, lingering kiss.
"You may call me Butterfield," said the man, before hungrily grabbing Sweeney's already engorged member. Sweeney moaned. It had been so long since anyone, man or woman, had caused that sort of fire to blaze up within him. He needed this release so badly.
Butterfield seemed to know everything to do. He first tongued and suckled his member before taking another of his razors, as yet unnamed, and making small slashes there. The blood was heavy and red. Sweeney's ecstasy only increased as Butterfield licked the blood off his cock, until he came, spent, and sated.
He looked at all the blood around him, and finally for Butterfield. Where was he? Gone. And in his place, only the Butterfield he knew previous to this miraculous night. He wished that he may return, so that he might return the favor, but alas, despite desperate shouting and copious kisses bestowed upon his shiny friend, he would not reappear.
And so, here he was the next morning, hoping that his gift of toast and orange juice might inspire him to return. Until then, he would have to deal with the bag in the kitchen, asking him questions and being daft. But in a few minutes, he would try his luck, and this made all the nagging in the world worthwhile.
THE END