It sort of turns into a ritual, after a while. I can't think of any other way to describe it. it's just a long process of delivery and succumbing to thirst and desire. Swapping spit with the abherent lips and moisture traveling from place to place.
Don't ask me how this got started, I didn't really want it to happen, so I apparently keep trying to tell myself. Contact with hands and bodies, pressing hard against cement, against metal, against porcelain, against linoleum; ammonia, gasoline and musk filling our nostrils. Heavy breathing and the sighs with carbon dioxide escaping with all of our little breaths.
It's always a ritual. No matter what, sex is just something that 'just happens' anymore. There's never any personal triumph, or meaning; just a couple of people's hormones jumping into what we were apparently put on this planet to do. That's what I just kept telling myself the first few times that we decided to just go and run with it.
To know what he thinks would be like a blind baby trying to read Greek in braille. He never speaks half of the time, and, if he does, it's in Russian for God's sake. He's leading me down this road of insecurities and confusion and 'what if?''s. Maybe it's his way of communication. I'd rather not think about it. Something tells me I won't like what I hear in the end. I'm gonna milk this for what it's worth.
These intimacies keep my sanity in tact, often. I don't have anything to worry about, considering he seems okay with fucking my brains out a couple times a week. I feel a sense of worth, with it, and, (if I'm lucky, that is,) maybe to him it's more than just a lay while he's in captivity here. He looks like he's been to prison a few times, maybe he just knows what he's doing. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it's something more.

Fat chance.

This ritual is one for the masses. Starts with a little foreplay, the big show, the main attraction, what have you, and the big finish, the cou de gras. If I'm lucky he sticks around for a while afterward, or just gets the hell out of dodge. But I don't want to make it a red flag that it actually matters to me. To be honest, I don't think he could care less. So that debauch happens, skin against skin, calloused and well worn hands ripping my clothes off with ease, in a closet, a back room I don't remember existing, or on a toolbox for Christ's sake. Not that I'm complaining or anything, I just want his cock in my ass and mouth.

Back to explaining.

I think he forgets he's pulling and yanking at my hair, sometimes. It turns into a shouting match, then all kinds of physical all over again. I remember him telling me that I like to use my mouth, considering I run it so much, but he's the same with his Goddamn hands. Aggressive bastard. He just starts prodding and fumbling and clawing inside my ass like a kid digging around in a cereal box for a prize. I just live with it, though. Slamming my sweaty, naked body against cold plaster walls in repeated thrusts like a Goddamn piston, never uttering anything outside of a grunt or two. Half the time I feel like a jackass, screaming and moaning his name, bent over a table with a Russian pounding over and over into me. My glasses skid across the floor while I'm kicking and thrashing around with his dick down my throat.
Wet slapping noises are the soundtrack of Hammer Industries. My whimpers and cries are the choir, and spilled tools and clattering metal is the percussion. But I envelop every second of it. It sort of looks like love, if you squint.